


Tree of the Family

by uduna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Character Study, Dragon Age Writing Group, F/M, Fluff, Of course it's fluff who am I kidding, Romance, Some Humor, sappy af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uduna/pseuds/uduna
Summary: Two years after the end of the Blight, Teagan Guerrin finds himself having to face up to it: he's been less private about his attitude toward Ashwen Tabris than he'd thought. So he girds himself and heads to Vigil's Keep.





	1. Redcliffe Where It Starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a million thanks to the Dragon Age Writing Group for all the help. Thanks to Steggo for the title suggestion!

A bright day.  Blue sky, fluffy clouds, even this late in the season.  _Classic_.  A good day to be out and about.  Teagan and Murdock squinted up at the new tower. 

 ‘Haven’t seen The Warden in a long while,’ the Mayor ventured. 

 An innocuous enough comment, but Teagan felt a warning tingle in his cheeks.  He nodded, trying to look, what?  nonchalant?  vaguely disinterested?  Did it matter, really?  Funny how Alistair was never The Warden.  Now he was always The King – but even before the Blight was over, _The_ Warden was ever and only Ashwen. 

 As they had promised, they proceeded with their inspection of the little guard outpost on the highway into Redcliffe.  It was unnecessary, but the village had wanted their approval.  Yes – it was definitely a tower.  The King had finally released monies to have them set up along all the main roads throughout the country.  Civil wars encouraged banditry, and once started it was hard to stop.  Alistair had been determined to quash it early after his coronation, and ensure safe passage for merchants and peasants and soldiers and all.  He’d started with frequent patrols, and now, after a couple of years, he’d secured enough support for the outposts as well. 

 The silence stretched thin, uncomfortable, and Teagan filled it with whatever blither came to his mind.  ‘Well, Amaranthine is a ways away… and she’s rebuilding Vigil’s Keep… and there are still darkspawn popping up….’  He petered out.  Murdock was obviously not rolling his eyes at him, gaze fixedly trained upon the top windows. 

 ‘She’d be welcome here,’ he said simply. 

 ‘Well, yes, of co–’

 Murdock _did_ roll his eyes then.  ‘Arl.  Not my place to tell you what to do.  But if she were to find her way here, not a soul would object to having her be permanent, elf or no.’ 

 Teagan froze quiet, embarrassed, the weight of the statement like tipping a scale.  _Love and a cold can’t be hid_.  The local people said that, usually tittering – now about him, apparently.  The image didn’t appeal.  ‘It’s…not quite so simple as that,’ he said eventually. 

 ‘No?’ Murdock raised an eyebrow.  He took a step, and they ambled companionably back toward Redcliffe, duty done. 

  _No_ , Teagan thought ruefully.  _Eamon would want to kill me, for starters, not that that would be a novelty.  Someday I’ll do something he approves of, and he may collapse from not-apoplexy._   Alistair, too, would doubtless be furious if he made a move on his closest friend.  _Made a move,_ he cringed, like he was some young squire getting above himself.  _And I’m, what?  a dozen years her senior?  At least?_ In noble circles, any bachelor was an eligible one, but for someone like Ashwen? 

 He tipped his head back to look at the clouds in the distance.  Cheerful little things.  Fluffy and gentle and free from the labyrinthine traps of politics and gossip.  He didn’t give a damn that she was an elf, but even with her status as Warden (Warden-Commander, he reminded himself with pride) she would not be safe from poisonous tongues; instead, it would no doubt make her even more of a target.  He had never cared about the chatter, had revelled in being out of step with gentry matters, had thumbed his nose at silly social norms.  Eamon could deal with all that; Teagan had been the irresponsible younger son.  The fun one.  Well, now Eamon was in Denerim, fancying himself Alistair’s chief adviser, and _he_ was Arl of Redcliffe.  The people here were his responsibility.  He still refused to play along with the nastier, insidious aspects of politics, but he wasn’t about to expect anyone else to play the fool with him.  He wasn’t that kind of man. 

 And really, what could he offer?  He was forty-two, only marginally skilled and fairly past learning, and bound to an arling.  He was _Arl_ , true, and Redcliffe was as important as any teyrnir, but still:  the place was hardly a cosmopolitan centre.  Hardly _interesting_ for the likes of someone who had traversed the country many times over and seen wonders he could never dream of, and then personally saved all of them.  Most of his people were farmers, fisherman, or minor merchants.  Lake Calenhad was poisoned with whatever magics Kinloch Hold had leeched into the waters.  In the autumn, everyone in the village gathered together to smoke the season’s catch by the shores of the lake, and the whole arling reeked of it.  Ashwen Tabris deserved far better than what he would ever be able to provide. 

 One of the clouds looked a bit like a mabari.  He smiled sadly to himself.  Ashwen’s dog Shar used to race to retrieve him whenever the Wardens’ group passed through Redcliffe on their travels.  He would bark his way up the path to the castle and excitedly insist he accompany him back to the tavern where they were staying, his whole back end wagging so hard it looked like it might fly off.  Redcliffe had become their safe haven, their respite from the Blight:  they were safe, they could eat their fill, sleep in proper beds, and relax.  Teagan had been incorporated into their circle during these visits:  they had invariably stayed up late, late, late, drinking far too much and exchanging stories and rumours and friendship.  He had gotten to know the determined, irreverent Warden, and Alistair as the adult he had become –equally irreverent –  and had been grateful for it all.   

 Good old Shar. 

 He realised belatedly that he was standing stock still, staring wistfully up at the clouds.  Murdock was eyeing him, bemused.  ‘Cloud looks like a mabari,’ he muttered.  He felt a fool.   And how sad was it that he was nostalgic for the bloody _Blight_?

 Murdock nodded solemnly.  ‘So it does.’  They moved on.  When the village slid into view, Murdock broke the silence again.  ‘She used to send that dog up to the castle soon as they neared Bella’s,’ he said.  ‘“Where’s Teagan?” she’d say.  “Where’s Teagan?” and he’d bark and bark and run to fetch you.’ 

 That was news.  ‘I – didn’t know that,’ Teagan admitted.  ‘I thought it was just his habit.  I sneaked him treats.’ 

 ‘You and everyone else in the village,’ Murdock laughed.  ‘But no, Arl – it was all the Warden.’ 

 What he wouldn’t give to see that damn dog galumphing over the horizon now.  Bella had appeared on the step of her tavern, hands on her hips, looking up the road towards them.  The earliest autumn leaves swirled past her skirts.  Murdock tried once more. 

 ‘Mayhap this is simpler than you think, Arl,’ he said. 

 ‘Do you suppose?’ Teagan murmured.  It was madness, and he knew it, but the day seemed brighter just for having spoken of her, and he had never been one to colour within the lines. 

 ‘I _suppose_.’ 

 He hadn’t ever allowed himself to acknowledge even the whiff of possibility before.  He was Arl:  he had responsibilities.  She was Warden-Commander, and Alistair had hinted that there were costs to being a Warden which they didn’t talk about.  And it was all a pipe dream anyway.  Why would she even consider it?  How could he put her in such an awkward, impossible position?  No.  It wouldn’t do.  He had to be better than this.  ‘I would – I would have to travel,’ he said in spite of himself. 

 ‘Rebuilding is going fine,’ Murdock said quickly.  ‘And you’ll need to go before the season turns cold.  Things are quiet.’

 Teagan shook his head and huffed a laugh.  The day had taken a peculiar turn.  How strange that taciturn, no-nonsense Murdock, of all people, had been the catalyst.  ‘Let me buy you a pint,’ he offered. 

 Bella still stood on her threshold when they arrived.  ‘Well?’ she demanded. 

 ‘Hush!’ Murdock warned.  He flicked his eyes at her. 

 Teagan turned to him, realisation like cold water.  ‘Murdock,’ he said, appalled, ‘did _the_ _village_ set you to speak to me?’  The man wouldn’t meet his eye. 

 ‘He’s Mayor, isn’t he?’ Bella scoffed.  ‘’Bout _time_.’ 

  

****


	2. To Denerim

_They were the first fresh faces he’d seen in FOREVER.  That alone gave him some hope.  Tomas brought them straight to him:  a young warrior with a mabari and an elven…servant? no, she was armoured too, but in leathers – and a haughty woman in thin clothing bearing a thoroughly suspicious walking staff.  As they emerged from the gloom of the nave, he took their measure again:  the elf seemed to be leading them, striding ahead while the others trailed behind.  Interesting._

_When Alistair announced himself, Teagan was lightheaded with relief.  Not only was the boy alive – should Eamon recover, he’d be especially pleased for his own reasons – but the Wardens HADN’T all been massacred.  This elf must be one too.  It was somehow reassuring simply to know this, even though right now it looked like none of them were likely to see another dawn._

_He breathlessly explained their situation, and the elf narrowed her eyes when he said Ser Perth had insisted Teagan stay inside.  Thought him a coward, no doubt, not that he cared.  Perth was right, even though it rankled.  This building would be the last line of defence, and he had to be here to lead the villagers and defend them at the last._

_He had his own work, but slyly observed the Wardens make their way around the Chantry, speaking with nearly everyone.  The elf occasionally leaned up to speak in Alistair’s ear.  There was a tension to her, as of pent-up energy, as though something inside her was only barely contained.  It made her compelling, and his eyes automatically followed her as the group meandered through the space.  When they spoke with Kaitlyn, he saw a flash of something in the elf’s eyes – more than concern, something visceral.  It was gone too quickly for him to pin down.  Kaitlyn looked hopeful as they moved away; they must have agreed to track down little Bevin for her.  Poor kid._

_The mage went outside, Alistair found a corner in which to check his gear, and the elf marched straight for Teagan.  The mabari padded behind her.  ‘I want to know more about YOU,’ she said._

_That surprised him.  ‘Is this really the time?  Night comes quickly.’_

_She lifted her chin up and her eyes flashed.  He caught himself._

_‘Forgive me, my lady.  What would you know of me?’_

_That earned him another flash and she peppered him with questions.  She seemed to be trying to suss him out.  Perhaps she thought he’d poisoned Eamon and this was all a setup, a notion he did his best to dispel.  He scrutinised her while they spoke: rather colourless, trim, wary, and that hint of dangerous vitality.  Sharp eyes, nice cheekbones, soft full lips, and halfway through these thoughts he found himself saying, out loud in public, that he was unmarried but hoped someday he would find someone as fascinating as she was.  He blinked in mortification._

_She shot him a black look and curtly announced that she was ready to go help prepare the town.  She and the dog – the mabari weirdly appeared to be hers, not Alistair’s – caught up with their companion and they left the Chantry together._

_‘You know who that must be?’ Mother Hannah approached him once they’d gone._

_‘It’s Alistair,’ he said, pleased.  ‘Eamon’s old foster boy.  Grown up and a Warden now.  They’re going to help us.’_

_‘No,’ she said, ‘the other one.  The elf.’_

_He shook his head, perplexed.  ‘Another Warden.  I didn’t get her name. Do you know her?’_

_‘I know OF her, and so do you.  I overheard their little group speaking outside the window.  The apostate rebuked your Alistair for deferring to a new recruit.’_

_‘We can hardly refuse help at the moment,’ he cut in. ‘A mage might be just what we need.’_

_She waved it off.  ‘Yes of course.  I don’t care about the apostate right now, though if she’s a Warden I’ll eat my prayer book.  My point is, if that elf is the new recruit, as seems quite clear, then there’s only one person she could possibly be.’_

_She waited for this to sink in.  He pondered a moment, then stiffened.  Mother Hannah gave him a meaningful look and went back to her duties._

_Redcliffe had been cut off for a few weeks now, but not before news of the battle at Ostagar had reached them, and before that the red-hot gossip from Denerim.  The elf he’d just mindlessly flirted with must be the one who’d done in Urien Kendells’s son.  And his friends.  And half his guards.  And then been conscripted before she could be lynched._

_Maker’s teeth._

_Teagan let out a breathy whistle and made a mental note to be careful, lest dirty looks be the least of his concerns._

 

***

 

‘I _could_ have the laws checked,’ Alistair offered, the glow from the study’s fireplace gilding him head to toe, ‘but I’m not aware of anything that states younger siblings have to obey elder ones.’  Teagan caught – _just_ – the glint in the King’s eye.  ‘I’m happy to have him chucked out of the city if you think it would help.’ 

 ‘Alistair!’ he exclaimed, but Alistair just gave an exaggerated sigh. 

 ‘Oh, very well, I won’t.  But honestly, Teagan, you’re an Arl.  You don’t answer to Eamon; you answer to _me_.’  Another glint.  Alistair was proving a stronger ruler than nearly anyone had predicted, and he was using their assumptions to his own advantage.  Clever boy. 

 ‘I don’t think _he_ knows that,’ Teagan muttered.  ‘And really, he likes to argue.  He likes to win.  I don’t dispute his motives, but this is…delicate.’  Alistair snorted, and Teagan tamped down his gradually rising temper, took a careful breath, changed tack.  ‘Do _you_ want Eamon interfering with Ashwen?’ he asked.  ‘If he thinks it would _look bad_ ’ – ‘he spat the words – ‘he’ll cause a fuss.’ 

 Alistair mulled it over, lips pursed, for about three seconds.  ‘Point,’ he conceded.  ‘But Teagan, you don’t need permission from _me_ , either.  Why are you here?  Not that I don’t appreciate it.’ 

 Now he really _did_ feel like a hapless young squire.  He had to keep himself from squirming.  Damn it all.  ‘You’re her closest friend.  I thought you might know the customs,’ he confessed.  ‘They arrange marriages, don’t they, in the Alienages?  Do I talk to her father?  Or the Bann?’  Maker, _there_ was an image.  He surged ahead to get away from it.  ‘And I don’t want to put her in a bad position.  If a human chasing after her would cause her trouble, I’ll leave off.  I know she had enough to deal with during the Blight.  And nobles are hardly popular in there.’

 Alistair snorted again. 

 ‘That’s not very regal,’ Teagan chided, petulant, but his King was having none of it. 

 ‘Ashwen is not exactly afraid of trouble,’ Alistair said dryly. 

 ‘Well….no,’ he conceded.  ‘But – ’

 Alistair held up a hand.  ‘Wait.  ‘Teagan – you’re quite serious, aren’t you?’

 Teagan clenched his jaw and released it again.  ‘Yes of course,’ he ground out.  ‘Why do you think I’m here making an ass of myself?’ 

 ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Alistair drawled.  ‘Boredom?  Lost a bet?’ Teagan rubbed his temple; _naturally_ his almost-nephew would treat this like it was all a great joke, like Teagan hadn’t spent the past two years trying to deny the truth to himself, trying to shut down his lovesickness in mortification, trying desperately not to destroy the most treasured friendship he had through his own idiocy.  _Naturally_ he should be teased relentlessly.  Arl Laughingstock.  He should have known better than to come here, known better than to trust anyone with this precious, damning thing.  

 ‘Because you know – ’ Alistair’s voice shifted, took an edge – ‘I’ll have you quartered if you hurt her.’ 

  _Ah_.  A test.  Teagan looked directly at him.  Ferelden’s golden hero king had come to look the part, no longer the reluctant young man with the crown foisted upon him; now it sat on his head like it had been there forever.  He’d grown his beard more fully and his hair was now long enough to comb back – as though it had grown with his confidence.  When on the throne, he lounged like it had been modeled for him specifically.  Even here, in a quiet study where they could speak privately, he carried an air of easy authority he hadn’t sported two years before.  Ashwen had been right about him, like she had about so many things:  Alistair had proven a very fine king. 

 Lonely, though.  The man loved Ferelden ferociously, but a nation was hardly a family.  Teagan and Eamon were the closest things he had to that, and Eamon was patronising and – _let’s be honest_ – power-hungry, and there was unhappy history between them; Teagan lived away from the city and seldom visited.  Ashwen was his only sister in arms, also living at a distance.  After that, he had no one.  Early on, Eamon had characteristically misread Alistair, made his standard pretentious assumptions, and presented him with a string of lovely women, thinking he should take a mistress (and, Teagan guessed, hoping a dalliance would distract him from other kingly duties; and who better to handle them than Eamon himself?).  Alistair had been irked and distressed, and Teagan had counselled him not to take a mistress unless he truly wished to.  The women had been sent kindly and politely – and firmly – away.  Alistair, having been starved of love through his youth, would only accept genuineness now, and defend that for those closest to him.  Teagan and he had that in common, though he doubted Alistair knew it.  Coming here like this, he thought, must smack of alliance rather than true affection. 

 They held eye contact for a few heartbeats.  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Teagan said sincerely. 

 Alistair quirked a grin, boyish again.  ‘Strength of four horses, me,’ he said.  He reached for goblets and poured.  Raised a toast.  ‘To success,’ he said with a smirk.

 ‘Damn you anyway,’ Teagan said amiably, and drank.   

 ‘In any case, there are some things I should tell you, and I don’t know the answers to your questions,’ Alistair said.  ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

  


	3. To the Alienage

***

_In the months following, he came to drop his assessment that she – Ashwen, the elf’s name was Ashwen – must be merely bloodthirsty. Her reputation had done her a disservice.  The villagers revered the Wardens, doling out the best food and free lodgings whenever they passed through.  Ashwen’s skittishness gave way to puckishness.  Young Bevin idolised her, and they capered about town getting up to all sorts of mischief, though the day she taught him how to summersault backwards off the fishmonger’s roof was a trying one.  After that, Alistair took the boy aside and offered to teach him some sword work, and Bevin was over the moon.  Ashwen herself offered to teach the locals some unarmed combat techniques.  ‘Let the bandits think you’re helpless!’ she urged.  ‘They’ll never see it coming.  Eagle Claw!  Knife Hand!  Hammer Fist!  Again! Eagle Claw!  Knife Hand!  Hammer Fist!’  she taught the manoeuvres like it was a dance._

_She didn’t offer to teach dagger skills, but she openly practised on the dummies in the chantry yard with distressing gusto. Mother Hannah kept giving Teagan the eye._

_The Wardens consulted Teagan on politics and strategies and ale, and were able to relax, to stop glancing over their shoulders, to let down their guard, while they were in Redcliffe.  They brought news, and wild stories, and added a few more to their number over time (‘Moths to a flame,’ Ashwen joked).  No one dared comment on the mages in their midst, but some of the others caused quite a stir – most notably the Qunari, and even more unbelievably, an Antivan Crow.  A real one.  The grey giant rarely broke his silence, but the Antivan more than made up for him.  The Wardens had created something of a travelling family.  Teagan found himself looking more and more forward to their visits._

***

Morning found them squelching through the Alienage gates, the inhabitants wide-eyed and openly distrustful beyond.  The King’s bodyguards glared them down, much to Teagan’s discomfort. 

 ‘I’ve never been in here,’ Teagan admitted in an undertone. 

 ‘Of course not,’ Alistair said.  ‘Why would you?  Ah, I see the plumbing project is coming along well.’  He pointed his chin toward a lacework of rickety scaffolding attached to what Teagan assumed must be a set of apartments.  A small crew of workers were hauling pipes up.  ‘Bann Shianni fought hard for that,’ Alistair noted, eyeing him sidelong.  ‘She said you helped her with the petition.’ 

 Teagan nodded absently, taking in the filthy shantytown.  ‘She’s new to the job,’ he said.  ‘Alistair, this place is appalling.  I’m sure that dog is _dead_.’  

 Alistair nodded in turn.  ‘It’s ten times better than it was.  Hardly any disease, now, with the clean water – that’s Shianni’s work.  Elves still don’t have legal standing; I have to get the Landsmeet to agree to that, and I’ll need to prepare more before I try it.  It’s a dog’s breakfast, Ferelden laws, but I’m working on it, I swear.’  He reached a hand out.  ‘Hold up.  She sent word that she’d meet us in the square.  It’s just around the corner, and – well, I think you’ll like it.  Let me take a look at you.’  He tweaked the lines of Teagan’s cloak and jacket.  ‘All straight.  You look fine.  Should have given you a flower for your cloak pin.  Ashwen likes Andraste’s Grace, by the way; Leliana got her on to it.  Doesn’t grow in the city.  How ‘bout me?  Crown on crooked?  Cheese in my beard?’ 

 Teagan was both irritated and grateful.  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered. 

 ‘There’s cheese, isn’t there?  It’s always the cheese.  And I just can’t keep away from the stuff.’ 

 The situation came home to Teagan: his _King_ was personally escorting him through a slum to introduce him to a potential in-law because he himself was too cowardly and ignorant to do it alone.  It was too much – Alistair was too kind – He didn’t deserve it – He didn’t know how to thank him.  ‘Alistair,’ he began, but he didn’t get to continue. 

 ‘No time,’ the King interrupted.  ‘We’re nearly late, and I _don’t_ want to face an angry Bann.  Off we go.’ 

 They rounded the corner leading into the square, and Teagan gawped. 

 ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Alistair asked. 

 ‘– Yes,’ he said, too taken aback to articulate anything better. 

 The little square in the centre of the Alienage hosted the largest tree Teagan had ever seen.  It looked like some kind of oak, and had clearly been well-tended for many, many years.  The grass before it was tidy and healthy, and a few people stood before it reverently.  Its lower branches bore talismans and rough garlands.  It was clearly a sacred, cherished thing, here in the centre of the most squalid and wretched spot in the whole of Ferelden.  The image it presented stood in painful contrast to its environment, the dim colours of the garlands garish against the backdrop of destitution. 

  _Hope_ , he thought; it looked like _Hope_.  It broke his heart. 

 ‘Hang on, give me a moment,’ Alistair said cheerfully, blithely breaking the bubble of his thoughts.  ‘Ven…Vennnn…. _Vhenadahl_ – that’s it.  _Tree of the people_.  I _think_ it’s meant to be a reminder of Arlathan.’ 

 Teagan had the presence of mind to keep his voice low.  ‘How on earth does it survive here?  This place is hardly…healthy.  Everything else is rotting.’ 

 ‘ _Magic_ ,’ Alistair whispered, and winked at him.  Teagan rolled his eyes.  ‘Actually, everyone pitches in to look after it.  It’s a symbol of their culture, after all.  Everyone gives a little of their day’s water to the tree, they all make sure it’s free of pests – that sort of thing.  Ashwen says they decorate it for festivals and weddings.  Decorate more, I mean.’ 

  _Weddings_.  His stomach clenched.  Not just nerves – Alistair had told him more fully why Ashwen had had to join the Wardens, and the price of doing so. 

 ‘Some of the Alienages are giving up on them,’ Alistair said.  ‘They’ve forgotten why they have them.   I…don’t like that.  I’m trying to ensure they all have one.’  He sounded almost shy, but when Teagan glanced back at him, his jaw was set and he had a look in his eye that brooked no nonsense.  Teagan felt a swell of pride. 

 ‘ _HEY!_ ’

 Alistair perked up.  ‘Ah, the call of the Bann.’ 

 From the far side of the great tree, Bann Shianni stood glaring.  She scowled at Teagan as they approached.  ‘I don’t believe this,’ she declared at him.  She was petite, even for an elf, and had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, yet she was blunt and fearless as Bann.  Most nobles were cowed by her, though they’d die before admitting it; Teagan thought he might have earned some of her grudging respect, but he was never quite certain.  Probably never would be.  Nevertheless, he liked her. 

 ‘Bann Shianni.’  He bowed low to hide his embarrassment.  ‘A pleasure as always.’ 

 She squinted in suspicion but didn’t pursue it.  ‘I’m only going along with this because it’s you,’ she announced. 

 ‘I’m honoured.’

 ‘Yeah, right.  Come on.’  She turned on her heel and strode away toward one of the squat buildings behind her.  The men followed in her wake; Alistair cannily motioned their guards to wait near the _Vhenadahl_.  They didn’t look happy about it; neither did the locals.  The King waved cheerily and carried on. 

 At the door, Shianni’s demeanour changed:  she straightened her back and clasped her hands together.  ‘ _Hahren_?’ she called deferentially.  She sounded like a little schoolgirl.  The transition was startling; Teagan tried to hide his surprise; Alistair flashed him an amused look. 

 They heard the scrape of a chair on the floor, and a voice called back: ‘Please – enter.’ 

 The dimness of the interior obscured the features of the man inside; Teagan’s eyes gradually adjusted as he was invited to sit across a worn table from their host.  Alistair sat next to him; Shianni stayed near the door.  ‘Elder Valendrian,’ the King said politely, ‘allow me to present the Arl of Redcliffe, Teagan Guerrin.’ 

 ‘I am honoured, Elder,’ Teagan said.  ‘Forgive my disturbing you in this manner.’ 

 Valendrian boasted an old apple face and a voice like mulled cider.  He served them tea and simple cakes, and deftly and graciously steered the conversation through the hazards of Teagan’s nerves and Shianni’s blazing scepticism. 

 ‘It is considerate of you to come to me,’ he said after a few careful exchanges.  ‘Few in your position would show our people such respect.’  Shianni sniffed, the third time in five minutes, and he turned to her.  ‘Shianni, enough.  Cyrion will be near the north gate helping Mercus with clearing the garden.  Go and ask that he come to me, would you please?’ Shianni left without a word.  Valendrian smiled sadly after her.  ‘She frets,’ he said.  ‘It’s part of her nature, to fret over us.  She used to find me terrifying; now, I fear, it is rather the other way ’round.

 ‘As to your questions:  as a rule, the parents decide.  Cyrion will give his opinion – but I must tell you, I expect he will say that she belongs to the Wardens now and he no longer has a say in her future.  Her fate was decided when she was taken from us.’  His face darkened.  ‘That was a very bad time, and not just for her family.  He may not be pleased.’ 

 Teagan’s heart sank.  ‘I understand,’ he said.  ‘I would not put any pressure on him.  I will of course withdraw if he wishes it.’ 

 Valendrian looked at him sharply.  ‘Would you now?’ he asked quietly.  ‘That is interesting.  I will not lie to you:  we all of us suffer, but the Tabris family have done so more keenly than many here at the hands of nobles.  Cyrion’s wife and daughter both were lost to him because of y– of them.  Ashwen speaks highly of you, Teagan Guerrin, and you are friend to the King; but Cyrion may only see you as belonging among those who harmed his family.

 ‘Tread carefully, Arl.  For my part, I will support you; but like you, I will not pressure him.’ 

 ‘Should I take the crown off?’ Alistair interrupted lightly, like it was nothing.  ‘Thought it would look nice and official if I wore it, but I can hide it.’ 

 ‘ _Maker_ , Alistair,’ Teagan hissed.

 ‘But it suits you so well,’ Valendrian chided, and Alistair puffed up comically.  They behaved, Teagan thought, like an uncle indulging a favourite mischievous nephew.  He wondered if the Elder had served the same role during the Blight that he himself had done in Redcliffe: a safe haven, an ear, someone supportive in a country that had reduced them to prey.  The elves would certainly have had some empathy there.  Perhaps Alistair had more in the way of family than he had assumed. 

 Valendrian’s face cracked into a tender smile.  ‘Duncan would be proud of you,’ he said, and Alistair blushed and blinked and clenched his jaw. 

 ‘You knew him?’ Teagan asked, surprised, and Valendrian nodded. 

 ‘Very well indeed.  A close and respected friend.’

 A knock from outside.  From Valendrian’s warning, Teagan expected a hardnosed, suspicious elf, but when the door opened he instead found himself facing a wary and nervous father.  Cyrion Tabris had given his daughter his eyes and complexion, but otherwise they seemed as different as sun and moon.  In Ashwen, her mousy colouring stood in glaring contrast to her personality; in her father, it suited him down to the ground.  He took one look around the room and froze, seemed to diminish in size before them, like he was trying to blend into the background. 

 Alistair hopped up.  ‘Cyrion!  You look well.  Please – ’ he offered his chair.  The old elf’s eyes widened, but he sat when Valendrian nodded to him.  ‘Actually,’ Alistair added, ‘I should check on my guards.  They get distracted on their own.  Can’t have them dancing the Remigold or starting a food fight.’  And he disappeared out the door before anyone could react.  Teagan wanted to pitch a mug at his head, but forced himself to recognise the wisdom of the departure.  If he was going to petition her father, Teagan would have to be on his own for it.  Having the King there would look like bullying.  Hopefully the man would appreciate the implication.   

 Valendrian introduced them, poured fresh tea, said that Teagan had come to speak with Cyrion about his daughter, then announced that he too would leave for a little while.  He slipped outside while they both stared after him, horrified.  There was an acutely uncomfortable silence. It hung between them, the excruciating awkwardness like a third person at the table hogging all the food.  The boisterous sounds from the square only barely penetrated into the room. 

 ‘I, ah, know your name, Arl Teagan,’ Cyrion finally ventured after a distressing eternity.  He had a low, gravelly voice, which soothed rather than irritated.  ‘Ashwen spoke of you.  King Alistair too.’  Well that was encouraging, at least.  Valendrian had said something similar.  ‘If she were in trouble,’ the elf guessed slowly, ‘I would have heard something by now, I think.  And not in this way.  So what is it that brings you to our _Hahren_ in company of our King?’ 

 Teagan caught himself worrying a little cake into crumbs and dropped it hastily back on his plate.  He should _not_ be this nervous.  It was preposterous and stupid and he was a bloody _Arl_.  He took a gulp from his mug to counter the dryness of his throat, but he had terribly misjudged the temperature and badly, screamingly, scalded his mouth.  He only barely managed not to spew tea all over the unfortunate man across from him.  Fantastic. 

 His tablemate watched warily while Teagan quite obviously forced himself not to clutch at his purpling face.  He took quick breaths and swallowed over and over again trying to will the agony away.  _Say something!_  his mind shrieked at him.  He scrambled for a turn of phrase, something that included words like _honour_ and _respect_ and _blessing_ – like he had practised in the wee hours.  Instead, when the searing pain diminished enough for him to form words, he blurted out: ‘I love her!’ 

  _Tread carefully, Arl_.  Maker take him.

 Her father blinked twice.  ‘I… see.  I see.  That’s… I see.’  He glanced at the door as if hoping Valendrian had reappeared, but they were resolutely alone.  Cyrion’s eye drifted back to the human, made a helpless gesture.  ‘She is with the Wardens.  I cannot speak for her.’ 

 ‘I would not ask you to,’ Teagan said quickly, tongue more or less working again, and charged ahead before he could foul this up any more.  ‘But I know it is the custom in the Alienages and I would not ask her to relinquish that.  I have come to ask your blessing to speak with her.  If she refuses me, I will not press her; and if you oppose a match, I will defer to your judgment.  I know that my station does not work in my favour, but please know that my affection for Ashwen is sincere.’ 

 ‘Your station?’ Cyrion looked puzzled.  He shook his head.  ‘I have no issue with your station, Arl.  I was servant in the Denerim estate of Bann Rodolf, and he was fair to me.  I know better than to blame all nobles for the vile actions of a few.  But you are right to be wary:  few here would agree with me.’

  _Caring and careful_.  That was how Ashwen had described her father to him.  Her mother had taught her how to wield daggers, how to defend herself with weapons and words, how not to lose herself in servitude; her father, apprehensive and skittish, had been afraid for her, knowing some of the dangers of such education.  Elves were not supposed even to own weapons, much less receive training in them.  He had encouraged her to be prudent, had protected her as much as he had been able.  She had resented it, she had told Teagan once, outside Bella’s a lifetime ago on a dim winter’s evening, until she was out of the Alienage and unable to return; only then had she recognised the great love her father had for her, how much he had given of himself to keep her safe and carefree.  In the darkness Teagan could feign blindness, and her embarrassed tears had gone unremarked upon, though his fingers had itched to wipe them away.  He had been far gone even then.   

 Cyrion straightened.  ‘As to Ashwen, you may have my blessing to speak with her, if you truly wish it, but she takes after her mother:  headstrong and a little wild.  I fear my opinion would matter only a little.’ 

 Teagan demurred.  ‘I think you do not give yourself proper credit.  She respects you greatly, Messere.  She spoke much of you when she stayed in Redcliffe.  I know she misses you, and her community here.’

 Cyrion chuckled a little sadly.  ‘She was never meant to live out her life inside the walls of the Alienage, no matter how much I might have wanted it.  Her spirit is boundless, and we elves must live within boundaries.  Her leaving was a blow to us, it is true, but her heart was always outside this place.  She was a runner, delivering messages for humans, and a good one – but I think she enjoyed it for the pretence of freedom it lent her.’  He reached out a hand; Teagan grasped it gratefully.  ‘I will send word with you, if it helps.  Let me speak with our _Hahren_.’ 

 

 

***


	4. To Amaranthine

***

_Teagan’s sharded memories from the course of the Blight:_

_Ashwen, legs planted wide apart, arms akimbo, laughing, laughing.  Young Bevin mimicking her in stance and attitude._

_The Wardens eating so much at every meal the locals gather to gawk.  Teagan frowning at the crassness of it; Alistair shrugging and Ashwen grinning around a mouthful of food._

_The Warden watching leaves in mid-autumn, browns and reds and oranges and yellows whirling in happy funnels.  ‘So many!’ smiling, trying to spin in time, her colouring letting her disappear into the mini-maelstroms._

_Their little group bringing all that they could to Redcliffe – news and goods and encouragement.  Breaking bad news gently, offering to find the lost, helping everywhere they could.  Where did they find the time to manage it?  Tracking down the Sacred Ashes was to search for a mare’s nest, but they were willing regardless._

_The Mothers chanting in the late evening, the Wardens sitting at the back in the dimness, listening in silence and anonymity._

_Ashwen teasing Murdock to sputtering, and the older mage from the Circle chastising.  The elf ducking her face, embarrassed, then catching Teagan’s eye and winking.  His breath quickening._

_Actually finding the Sacred Ashes – literally tracking down a myth and healing his brother with it.  How?  How on earth did they do it? Isolde over the moon, thanking Alistair over and over and over, Ashwen standing off to the side.  Teagan grinding his teeth at the hypocrisy of it all._

_Red on a boulder – a handprint.  Teagan rushing along the path to find the Qunari in a clearing, greatsword bright in the spring sun.  ‘You’re blooded, Warden!  I can smell it.’  A shimmer in the light, and Ashwen appearing like smoke, leaping up, and tweaking the giant’s nose.  ‘Perhaps, but I’ve still won.’_

_The Orlesian sister who travelled with them, accepting a lute from a shy local boy who stood not a single chance in the Fade, playing a sweet tune for them all in the tavern – haunting, and familiar, and unplaceable. Some part of Teagan knowing the lyrics from long ago but not remembering now.  Alistair nudging Ashwen and waggling eyebrows; Ashwen glaring and turning red.  An inside joke.  Teagan smiling at their camaraderie._

_Alistair keeping a protective eye on her.  Teagan finding himself doing the same._

***

Amaranthine was an unexpectedly tedious journey north:  the Pilgrim’s Path was better kept than any other road in the country, and the ride was easy.  Along the way, however,  Teagan encountered travellers who warned him that Vigil’s Keep was still in such poor shape that they hadn’t yet rebuilt the barns – all horses were being stabled at the hamlet of Hedeby on the way to the city.  For Teagan, that would mean overshooting the Keep and doubling back.  Instead, he left his horse at a Stoppington inn he knew and walked the rest of the way.  The early autumn weather was fine, his fellow travellers were polite and gregarious, and the lodgings he stayed in were cheerful, but he hadn’t prepared to walk halfway to his destination and he was impatient. 

 Still, once Vigil’s Keep coalesced on the horizon in the late morning’s sun, he felt lighter than he had in months.  Even in its rather sad state, the keep carried a certain elegance in its lines that were comforting in their heaviness.  His pace quickened;  after a few minutes he noticed something.  What was wrong with him?  He didn’t _hum_.  Maker’s breath, he was turning into a halfwit.  He couldn’t afford to turn senile now.  And the tune in his head was the one Leliana used to pick out on the lute during the Blight – the one that made Alistair bedevil Ashwen. He still couldn’t remember the words, which made it that much more aggravating; only shreds of lines popped into his brain periodically ( _So farewell lads and farewell lasses…. I'll away to yonder island…. Though great distance may prove assistance…_ ).  _Stop stop stop_.  Then he noticed his cheeks ached:  he was grinning to himself and couldn’t stop.  And he felt dizzy.  This was intolerable.  

 Upon arrival, he hit a crushing setback:  Ashwen wasn’t there.  She was out inspecting a wall or standing up to a Bann or perhaps stabbing something; in any case, he hadn’t told anyone he was coming and was in no position to complain.  Still, he didn’t know what to do with himself.  He had wound himself up by banking on speaking with her upon arrival – had witlessly assumed she would simply be there – and now felt deflated and a little sick.  Seneschal Varel, whom Teagan remembered meeting once or twice in the Howe days, led him to a guest room and ordered him a bath.  Hopefully Ashwen would be back shortly, likely even by noon.  Teagan stripped off and considered his options. 

 As a child, he had been enamoured with adventure stories.  The hero would arrive in the village after a dangerous excursion, travel-stained and weary, ready to rest and move on to the next stage of his Terribly Important Quest – usually a fight or a girl.  Or a fight _for_ a girl.  Young Teagan had thought that _travel_ - _stained_ sounded awfully romantic.  As an adult, he was terribly disappointed to learn that it was just a literary way of saying _filthy_.  As he scraped two days’ grime off his skin, he reassessed: her absence was good:  he could pull himself together, scout the lay of the land, _and_ he’d be clean.  He mulled over the possibilities as he rebraided his hair.

 Varel was too professional to ask that he state his business and showed no inclination to curiosity; the same was less likely to be true of the resident Wardens.  Teagan wasn’t interested in sharing, so did his best to avoid them.  Nathaniel Howe had inclined his head to him in the hallway; Teagan had waited for him to ask questions (or, really, given who it was, _demand answers_ ), but nothing had been said.  The others were a motley bunch who mostly kept to their own affairs.  He was delighted and horrified to find Oghren on the premises, being as much himself as ever.  They shared a brief lunch, Teagan playing his cards as close to his chest as he could: Oghren had always been much more astute than he let on.  Teagan could only shake his head when his lunch mate caught sight of an angry-looking Dalish woman, deliberately belched in her direction, then leered at her.  She glared and stalked away, and Oghren switched back to sobriety in an instant.  He also made a masturbating gesture and rolled his eyes.  Oghren would never not be Oghren.

 After that, Teagan wandered the halls and the grounds and finally found a little space off the gardens, secluded and quiet and overlooked by sugar maples.  Early autumn leaves covered the ground like a frayed red carpet.  He could speak to her here when she returned.  A plan. 

 Unfortunately, long after midday, the afternoon began to wane and Ashwen still hadn’t turned up, so his hopeful plans dissipated like so much vapour.  He set out to find her; if nothing else, his health wouldn’t be able to handle many more days like this.  Murdock had cracked a wedge in to the foundations of the dam Teagan had so carefully built; now the trickle of emotions was rapidly streaming through and accelerating.  As it was, he had a hell of a time sleeping and could hardly eat.  The bloody song was stuck in his head and refused to budge.  He’d be gushing at people soon if he wasn’t careful. 

 He gingerly put together his small packet of items into a cloth bag and shouldered it.  The Seneschal pointed him in the direction Ashwen had last been seen, and he set off again. 

 

 

***


	5. Finding Ashwen

***

Goats grazed in the meadowlands between the keep and the city.  The young goatherd peered up at him through bedraggled bangs with suspicion.  ‘Who’s asking?’ he demanded.

Teagan had gotten lost.  After wandering for about an hour – Maker, he hoped only an hour – he’d come upon the little flock of goats.  He swallowed his temper and his dignity.  ‘My name is Teagan, and I’m a good friend of hers,’ he said, trying to sound as sincere as he could.  This clearly roused even more distrust in his audience.  His pride stung.  ‘I’m an Arl, actually,’ he added quickly when the child opened his mouth to argue. 

‘Huh,’ said the boy.  He peered some more.  This man wasn’t dressed like a local farmer, nor like a bandit.  There had been an assassin, once, who dressed very well, and knives hidden everywhere, but he had turned out to be a friend too.  ‘All right, Messere, but I don’t want to hear about any trouble, you get me?’ 

 'I quite understand,’ Teagan said. 

 The goatherd pointed up the low hill to the south.  ‘There’s a path,’ he said. 

 Teagan waited, but that was clearly all he was going to get.  As he left, he had to ask.  ‘Did the Blight miss this area?  The goats seem quite healthy.’ 

 The boy shrugged.  ‘Seems so,’ he said.  ‘Sheep and cows fared bad.  All dead now.  But the goats don’t seem to mind it.’ 

 Teagan reminded himself to avoid goat meat in future, and sought out the path. 

 ---

 It was a fine spot.  The hill sloped gently from this direction, but on its south- and west-facing sides it dropped, boasting a stunning view of most of the land between Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep.  Poplars, paper birches, and a few pines kept the summit from being exposed.  One could lounge under the rustling branches and watch the onset of sundown – as Ashwen was doing now. 

 Her hair had grown.  During the Blight, she could just tuck a lock behind an ear, whence it had inevitably escaped and irritated its owner, much to Teagan’s amusement; now it curled along the line of her shoulders.  At this time of day, it caught the late sunlight and held it, warming the colour a little.  She wore simple clothing, not armour; one would never guess that this was the Warden Commander of the country and local Arlessa to boot.  Her cloak had been draped over a nearby branch, and she had found a fat poplar with a leaning trunk which comfortably accommodated her.  Her legs stretched out before her, one foot lazily aiming to catch the strap of a pack just out of reach.   He felt guilty disturbing her. 

 He must have made a noise, for she was suddenly on her feet with daggers drawn, facing him.  The moment froze between them.  Ashwen relaxed her stance but was obviously flummoxed. 

 ‘ _Teagan_?’ 

 He didn’t get a chance to speak, because from somewhere just off his left buttock he was slammed by something heavy as a catapult stone.  He only just heard Ashwen’s gasp before his satchel was sent flying and he smacked face-down onto the damp earth before her.  It knocked the wind out of him, but that didn’t matter:  the weight of the thing on his back kept him from breathing regardless.   He wheezed and tried not to flail in panic. 

 ‘Bad boy!’ Ashwen shouted. 

  _The dog_ , Teagan realised belatedly.  He should have been prepared for the dog.  He wedged his hands underneath his chest and attempted to heave himself up.  He might as well have tried to tip the whole hillside over.  Shar gave a happy bark and licked his ear.  From the wild movements he could track acutely on his lower back, he gathered that the dog was wagging his hindquarters in his enthusiastic way. 

 ‘ _Off!_ ’ Ashwen ordered.  ‘You’re crushing him.’ 

 Shar gave a brief whine but shifted off to the side.  Teagan took great, relieved breaths and hauled himself up to his knees.  He panted for a minute, waited for the stars to leave his vision, looked down at his clothes, and sighed. 

 ‘I was quite _clean_ , you know,’ he said mournfully.  ‘It’s important that you know this.  I had a bath and everything.’ 

 ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, but he could see the flash of humour in the quick twist of her mouth.  She was not really succeeding at not laughing.  He felt homesick for the painful timidity of her father.  ‘He’s very fond of you.’ 

 ‘Yes… _fond_ ,’ Teagan grumbled, but the dog caught his eye and quirked eyebrows at him.  He reached out a hand and scratched behind a floppy ear, resigned.  ‘You’re not a bad dog, Shar’ – Shar barked again – ‘though I do wish you could keep your exuberance in check.’  Shar propped both paws on his shoulders and thoroughly licked his face.  Teagan grimaced and tilted unsuccessfully out of the way.  ‘ _Enough._ ’  He stood up and half-heartedly brushed down his clothing, smearing the dirt.  Hopeless.  Maker take him.  This whole endeavour had unravelled at every stage.  He should have accepted the mortifying tea moment as the sign it surely was.  There was no recovering from this.  He must cut his losses, invent some excuse for his presence, and beat an undignified retreat.  The yawning loneliness of Redcliffe Castle never seemed so welcoming. 

 Ashwen, mouth still twitching, motioned toward the southern side of the hill.  ‘There’s a brook that begins just over there,’ she said.  ‘The water’s fresh.  I have some pears and scones and wine.  And cheese.  I’m happy to share with a _clean_ person.’  She winked, mischievous like Alistair. 

 And just like that, he felt lighter and better.  Her features twinkled at him.  She accepted him as she knew him, not as a hapless fool, but as a trusted friend.  He puffed out his breath and gave in to her – surely he would always give in to her.  That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?  The whole point?  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll go find it, shall I?’  She passed him a washing cloth. 

The brook at its source was no more than a rivulet, but the water was indeed fresh and cold and wonderful.  He cleaned his face of dog spit, his hands of dirt, and flapped the moistened cloth at his clothes in an effort to get the dust and grime out.  He raked fingers through his hair and hoped it would be adequate.  Not a great success, but better than nothing. 

 _Something, something…._ _When I wake I find no rest… Something, something…. Though great distance may prove assistance…._ He rather thought the last line of each verse was the same.  The blasted song must his nerves’ attempt at distraction.  It wasn’t helping.

‘Oh, Andraste,’ he murmured, ‘let me do this right.’ 

 

\---

They sat across a cold firepit from each other.  She stared down at the paper, fingers sweeping across its surface, blunt nails catching on the grooves of Bann Shianni’s seal.  ‘Why do you give this to me?’ she asked. 

He frowned, mystified.  ‘It’s a letter for you.  Read it?’ 

She handed it back.  ‘Read it to me?’ she asked shyly.  Teagan knit his brows.  ‘I’ll get food ready.’ 

 This _wasn’t_ how this was supposed to play out.  Reading it herself would give her space and he could pretend to be interested in something else while she digested the contents.   ‘But… Very well,’ he agreed.  He reached for the letter and carefully broke the seal of the envelope, drew it out, eyed her over its edge.  ‘If you’re certain.’ 

 She sent him an encouraging smile and drew out pears from her pack.  ‘Please.’  Scones and sliced meats followed. 

 It was such a companionable exchange, such an easy gesture of friendship, he was loath to disturb its equilibrium, but he had come all this way and couldn’t possibly give up now.  What would Bella say?  He noted with some satisfaction that the paper didn’t betray him with trembling: his hands were remarkably steady.  He took a silent, careful breath.  Began to read. 

  _Ashwen, My Daughter_

 and Ashwen gasped and the pears scattered.  ‘It’s from my _father_?’ she cried.  ‘How?  Did he know you were coming this way?  Did Alistair tell him?  Did he give it to you to deliver to me?  Is he all right?’  Her face was alight, shining with affection; she looked lively and excited.  Teagan swallowed hard.  Cleared his throat. 

_Hahren writes for me.  We are both well, as we hope this finds you._

 He kept his eyed focused on the page before him for fear of betraying himself.  _Breathe and read,_ he thought; _breathe and read_.

_King Alistair brought Arl Teagan of Redcliffe to the Alienage.  I do not know much of Redcliffe.  I know it is to the west, and they grow apples there.  I remember your stories about it.  The Arl wanted to speak to me about you.  Ashwen, you are no longer my little girl. You are a Warden, but the Arl wishes to respect our ways, so I honour his request.  I do not know if there are rules for Wardens, but the King says he sees no point now in observing them if there are any, after everything that has happened.  I do not always understand his humour._

 Ashwen grinned at this, but looked perplexed, shot him a questioning look.  Teagan swallowed again.  Now for it.  So far, so good.  Cyrion’s tone was careful – no surprise there – and he hoped he would give the impression that he might actually _like_ Teagan.  His eyes dropped back to the parchment as she retrieved the last of the errant pears. 

  _The Arl asked for my blessing.  He wishes to court you._

Teagan paused.  Didn’t dare look up.  Governed his voice. 

_You do not need my blessing, but I give it.  You and Alistair both speak well of him.  He seems to me an honest and kind man.  He respects you.  If you wish to be with this man, I think it is a good match.  If you do not, say No.  He and the King and Hahren have all said he will heed your refusal._

  _Maker bless Cyrion_ , Teagan thought.  He’d done exactly as he’d promised: given his support of his suit and impressed upon his daughter that her decisions were her own.  Teagan could have hugged him. 

  _I think you could be happy.  I want happiness for you._

                 _Take care, my daughter.  Be strong and wise.  We all miss you._

_With all my love,_

_Cyrion Your Father_

 Teagan summoned his courage and raised his eyes.  The centre of his life was fixed in place, sitting on her haunches, clutching a pear to bruising, staring at nothing.  Good?  Bad?  Very, very bad? 

 This was all wrong.  He should have insisted she take the letter aside and read it in private, not read it aloud to her like it was some kind of performance.  Such a stupid mistake.  She looked stricken.  Should he leave? 

 ‘…Ashwen?’ he spoke gently. 

 ‘My father says this?’ she asked, and there was something… niggling at his brain, something that didn’t quite fit the scene.  Something he had missed. 

 ‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘I hadn’t read it before.  I didn’t know what he wrote, but he said he would do so.  Is that all right?’ 

 She nodded, dropped her gaze to the fruit in her hand.  Frowned at it.  ‘It…sounds like him.  I’m – I’m not sure what to say.’  

 Oh, _damn_.  Damn damn damn.  ‘…It’s all right.  I don’t wish to cause you distress,’ he said, hoping he was hiding his disappointment, though in his own ears his voice sounded terrible.  ‘I would never want you to feel uncomfortable around me.  I think I can guess your answer.  We can scratch it out, ignore it.  Pretend this never happened.’ 

 She speared him with a look.  ‘ _Ignore_ it?  We can’t ignore it!  We – you spoke to my father – why, if you didn’t mean it?’  She made a slicing motion between them with a hand, stood and moved to the edge of the cliffside, stared out at the oranging horizon, worked her mouth in thought.  Teagan didn’t dare interrupt her, sat still for aching, crushing minutes while she deliberated.  Even in his distress, he could only think how lovely she was, lithe and strong like the poplars she had chosen for the afternoon’s company.  ‘Alistair told me,’ she eventually said guardedly over her shoulder at him – a tone she’d never used with him before; it made him feel ill – ‘that Eamon tried to get him to take a mistress, and you told him not to unless he really wanted to.’ 

 ‘Yes…that’s true,’ he agreed, wondering where this was leading.  ‘Eamon’s not the most astute judge of character, and he can be pushy.  I didn’t want Alistair to be put in an unhappy position.’ 

 ‘He said… you told him that it would be cheap for him.  That he wasn’t the sort of person who would be content with that.’

 ‘That’s true as well.’ 

 ‘But _you_ are.  And you think _I_ am.’  She turned her head a fraction and sneaked a sidelong glance at him through her lashes. 

 His stomach dropped.  Of all the things he might have expected her to think of him, this had never even crossed his mind.  _When_ had he given this impression?  His blood rushed to his face in horror and overwhelmed his sight, making the light behind her seem a glaring indictment: his eyes could only perceive her as a blazing outline.  How – how _vile_ , that she thought him so callow.  He felt like he needed another bath.  ‘Ashwen,’ he choked.  ‘ _No_.  Not at all.  _Never_.  For either of us.  Please believe me.  I can’t believe you’d think – Wait – ’ he pleaded, since she was simply regarding him sadly, ‘please, just let me – ’ and darted off in the direction Shar had knocked his bag from his hands.  It took him a minute to find it, for his head to clear, then to tug apart the strings – the dog had leant enough force behind his leap that the knots had tightened – and then he gingerly drew out the larger bundle.  The cloth was still damp at least, and the scent permeated it.  When he divided the fabric, he was disappointed to see that one of the flowers had broken below the bud, but the other two were still intact. 

 He drew out the survivors and presented them to his love.  Her eyebrows raised.  ‘Alistair,’ he confessed.  ‘He said Leliana introduced them to you.  At this time of year, a touch difficult to find.’  He’d unearthed a vendor in Denerim whom he had coaxed and flirted into acknowledging that she did indeed have a few specimens, and for an outrageous amount of coin he could purchase them, provided he never asked how they survived so late in the year.  The leers he’d suffered to get them would haunt his dreams for weeks.  Ashwen accepted them tentatively from his hands and leaned in to breathe in their aroma. 

 ‘Andraste’s Grace,’ she murmured. 

 Two lines together:  _The world would change and be most strange / If ever I inconstant prove…_

 He reached back in and groped in the folds until his fingers closed around the box. This had taken ages to ferret out.  He’d known it must be somewhere in Denerim Castle’s private quarters, but he hadn’t seen it in more years than he could bear to think.  Between his memories and Alistair’s guesses, they’d managed to find it, carefully stashed at the very back of a top drawer of the desk in the King’s personal study.  Whether Maric or Cailan had placed it there, he wouldn’t guess, nor whether either of them had ever taken it out to look at or cradle in the hand.  Perhaps the memories were too painful, and the knowledge that the box was near was as much as they could manage. 

 It was good Ferelden oak, solid and burnished with long handling.  Knots and whorls were carved all over it, the classic designs original to the Bannorn and popular throughout the country.  Stylised Mabari danced on the lid with interlocked limbs; around the four sides, local flora were woven between the knots.  No one looking at this beautiful thing could ever doubt its origin. 

 He dropped the bag and clenched hard against the wood, grounding himself in the solidity of it.  ‘Eamon was to be Arl,’ he said, ‘and I was the landless second son.  Even once I had Rainesfere, Eamon had been favoured.  It wasn’t really fair.  My family agreed that I could claim the better jewellery should I ever marry.’  He held out the box in invitation, and she lifted the lid with some trepidation.  The two items within gleamed against faded grey silk. 

 A cloak pin of dragon steel, the circle marked in a series of whorling knots like on the box it inhabited, its long pin topped by a similarly styled stag’s head, antlers curling together like a Dalish deer, emeralds for eyes.  The circle’s pin-gap was faced with chunkier knotwork surrounding opaque, slate-blue beryl stones.  Then, next to the pin, a colourful amulet on a fine chain:  a broad circle, the centre marked with the Avvar triple spiral.  Around it in a wide band dragons and mabari faced off, legs an ordered chaos of knots.  The whole piece was fashioned from white gold embedded with a mosaic of tiny gemstones:  dragons in flecks of garnet, dogs in yellow sapphire, background in onyx, the spiral a bright, pale opal.  Gold threads outlined each of the figures. 

 ‘These were my sister’s,’ he said quietly.  ‘Rowan’s favourites.’ 

 She swallowed.  ‘Are you – did you come here –’ She caught herself, gulped a breath, stared fixedly at his chest.  ‘I can’t think.  I – I’m usually better with… talking.’  She petered out lamely, worried the flower stems between thumb and fingers. 

 ‘I don’t want a mistress,’ he said. 

 Her hands trembled; the petals shook; he pretended not to notice.  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said. 

 He smiled sadly.  ‘You needn’t say anything,’ he said.  ‘I don’t begrudge you your refusal.  Just know that I am sincere.’ 

 She shook her head.  ‘You don’t understand.  I _can’t_.  There are – there are costs to being a Warden.  More than just the responsibility.  I couldn’t allow you – _anyone_ – to pay as well.’ 

 ‘You don’t have to explain,’ he said.  ‘Alistair spoke to me before I approached your father.  He didn’t tell me exactly what happens, but I understand joining the Wardens means your life is shortened.’ 

 ‘Not just shortened,’ she flared bitterly.  ‘ _Poisoned_.  Wardens go to the Deep Roads when they know their end is coming so they don’t turn into…. They die fighting instead.  And –’ she had paled, he saw, her eyes gone distant, her vivacity subsumed by something dreadful.  She shook her head again.  ‘I don’t think I can tell you.  But it’s different for women.  It’s… hard.’  She stopped.  He held onto the moment, holding his breath, willing this story to play out differently despite it all, as though if he didn’t breathe time would stop.  This tiny space between his overture and her refusal – this he could hold onto forever, for the pinprick of pathetic hope still left open to him.  ‘Anyway – I can’t ask anyone to carry this with me.  It’s just how it is.  I’m sorry.’ 

 So that was that.  Time to leave.  Game over, mutual respect, pain will fade with time, and so forth.  He closed the lid of the box, tipped his head back to look westward into the waning sky.  Thought of Mabari clouds.  ‘What if I want to help you carry it?’ he asked instead. 

 ‘Teagan, listen to me.  You _can’t_.  No one can.’   

 ‘He said Wardens typically have about thirty years after they join up,’ he persisted.  ‘I’m older than you are.  I probably have about thirty years myself.’ 

 ‘Stop.  This can’t work – Wait.  Did Alistair put you up to this?’ 

 ‘Alistair?’ he barked in surprise.  ‘No, of course not.  Why?’ 

 She narrowed her eyes at him.  ‘Really?’ 

 ‘Yes, really.’  Where had this come from?  Alistair had treated it all as a great joke.  His almost-nephew had delighted in teasing him in Denerim, abandoning him in the Alienage with a happy wave, rooting through every cabinet and chest in the castle, laughingly sending him off to the flower-seller-definitely-not-a-mage-don’t-ask, and, and…. 

 The lines that Leliana never sang finally poured straight into his mind like wine from a carafe and just as intoxicating:  _The world would change and be most strange / If ever I inconstant prove / My heart is with him all together / Though I live not where I love_

 ' _Teagan, you’re serious, aren’t you?  If you hurt her, I’ll have you quartered.'_

  _When I sleep I dream about him / When I wake I find no rest / Every moment thinking of him / My heart fixed within his breast / Though great distance may prove assistance / From my mind his love to remove / My heart is with him all together / Though I live not where I love_

 Oh, Maker, he was an _idiot_. 

 ‘If you weren’t a Warden,’ he asked slowly, ‘would you consider me?’

 ‘Are you not listening?’

 Yes, at last, he was listening.  ‘Just… this question.  Answer this question.  Please?’  He felt upright again, like he had finally regained his footing, for the first time since Murdock had pulled the rug out from under him.

 She looked at him like he was crazy.  ‘I’m an elf –’

 ‘Irrelevant.’

 ‘And not noble –’

 ‘Unimportant.’

 ‘And poor.’

 ‘Don’t care.’ 

 She glared.  ‘You’re not making this easy.’

 ‘Good.’ 

 She pressed her lips tight together.  ‘Fine.  Yes, I would consider it, _if I weren’t a Warden_.’

 ‘Marry me.’ 

 ‘ _Teagan_!’ 

 ‘Thirty years,’ he pressed.  ‘A great deal can happen in thirty years.  Perhaps the poison can be cured.  Perhaps we’ll meet our end before that anyway.  And if we don’t, when your time comes, we can jump off a tower together.  That would be romantic.’ 

 ‘That would be _horrible_ ,’ she corrected. 

 ‘Not with you.’ 

 She dropped her head in both hands and laughed hopelessly toward her toes.  The flowers shook drunkenly.  ‘You’re incorrigible,’ she said.  ‘And crazy.  And I love you and I don’t know what to do.  I’m a walking liability and you know it.’ 

 He knew he was grinning like a fool and couldn’t be happier.  ‘That’s funny,’ he said gleefully.   ‘That’s exactly how Eamon describes me, too.  We can be crazy liabilities together.  What do you say?’

 ‘Your brother can’t stand me,’ she countered, raising her head again.  ‘He doesn’t say it in front of me, but I’m not _stupid_.  I’m far, far beneath him.  He’s only sort of polite to me because I’m a Warden.  I think if I were at least Dalish, he might stomach the idea that someone like me helped him.  But to him I’m a filthy Alienage urchin.’

 ‘He _is_ grateful,’ Teagan said, though it sounded empty.  Eamon was a self-important ass, true, but not actually villainous. 

 ‘I’m still from the Alienage.  If he could pretend I was some kind of Dalish princess or something, I would be less of a scandal.  And it does matter to him.  I don’t want you to have to –’

 ‘Scandal?’ he interrupted, forcing his voice to stay light despite the rottenness her argument drew to the surface of his thoughts.  ‘You mean like marrying someone from your oppressor’s country as soon as they’re driven out?  That kind of scandal?’ 

 Her mouth snapped shut.  ‘Well,’ she said.  ‘Yes, maybe like that.’ 

 ‘I don’t answer to Eamon; I answer to the King:  he told me so himself.  I don’t actually care what Eamon thinks.  _I_ think I don’t want to speak about my brother anymore.  I’d much rather talk about you.’  He fetched her cloak from its branch, gave a bow.  ‘It will get dark soon.  May I escort you home?’

 She laughed again – but fragile, he could see, and she was still trembling behind the façade – and rolled her eyes.  ‘Are you going to be all gallant at me now?  I’ve known you long enough to see through it.  You’ll have to be very good at it.’ 

 ‘Perhaps.’  He threw her cloak over her shoulders and picked the cloak pin out of the box, pinned the fabric deftly, and smiled.  ‘Suits you.’ 

 Her forehead wrinkled with concern as she twisted her neck to peer at the pin.  ‘It’s too beautiful.   It must be worth more than the whole Alienage.’

 ‘So we sell it and pay for their plumbing.’

 She blinked.  ‘How did you –?  Anyway, no.  I’m already helping with that.  You remember the rebellion here last year with the Banns?  I levied a tithe on the traitors.  The ringleader, whatever her name is – Bann Bitchy – _she’s_ pitching in for the plumbing.’ 

  _Bann Bitchy_.  Teagan imagined Ashwen at official functions in future, and his heart soared.  He grabbed her pack, stuffed the errant foodstuffs inside, swung it over a shoulder.  Shar, he now saw, had sniffed out the little bag he’d brought and chewed it up while he had been pressing his suit.  Only threads were left.  He gave it up for lost and slipped Rowan’s box into a pocket.  His sister, at least, would have loved Ashwen.  They shared a defiant streak a mile wide.  Rebel Queen and Rebel Warden – a shame they never met.  ‘Have I got everything?  Also I’ve loved you since the Blight and would like you to marry me.’ 

 She took his arm.  ‘You’ve got everything,’ she said. 

 Arm in arm they headed back toward the path down the hill.  Something white at their feet caught Teagan’s eye and he bent for it.  It was the last, broken flower.  He tucked it behind her ear.  ‘Didn’t survive the battle with Shar, I’m afraid,’ he said.  ‘This will give it the finest funeral in Thedas.’ 

 ‘Charmer.’

 ‘Do you know, I’ve been told I make love rather nicely.   I’d rather like your opinion.’ 

 ‘Oh yes?’  she asked.  ‘You have a chronicler?  What’s their account?’

 Rather than speak, he turned to her, slipped both hands into the hair at the base of her neck, tilted down, and slowly, sweetly kissed along her hairline.  One, two, three, four, five.  At her temple he could feel her breath quicken against his throat, and he leaned back to look at her.  Her eyes were closed and her lips parted, and she clutched his jerkin reflexively.  He felt a hundred leagues tall.  His heart felt like it would fly straight out of his chest.  He felt like laughing to the heavens and dancing.  Instead he got hold of himself and delicately kissed each of her eyelids.  Her cheeks had turned rosy so he kissed those too.  When he finally gave in and claimed her mouth, his heart was beating so hard he felt dizzy again. 

 Soft, and generous, and tasting of the flat sweetness of pears, Ashwen returned his kiss with surprising heat.  They tasted each other and sighed and smiled and entwined fingers.  The light dimmed around them and they didn’t notice.     

 When they broke apart, they smiled shyly at one other, touched foreheads.  ‘I’ve wanted to do that for years,’ he admitted. 

 She nodded, pink to the ears.  ‘That one should go on your list,’ she said weakly.

 ‘I’ll make a note,’ he murmured, allowing the joke, and stayed quiet while she drew nervous figures on his palm, wouldn’t meet his eye. She was thinking about something and he didn’t dare interrupt, but the little movements sent a frisson up his arm, down through his gut and straight to the groin. He hoped to the Maker she didn’t notice how it affected him; he tried to be unobtrusive, subtly turning his body and canting his hip. The distraction left him unprepared for when she launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his torso and holding tight.  He caught his balance with an _Oof_ and smiled in surprise, folded his arms around her, and cradled the back of her head in a hand as she let out a shuddering breath.  Her hair was soft like water; he tipped his head to lean a cheek against it.  They stood in silence as evening descended; he waited patiently, thinking how precious this moment was, how he could happily stand here like this for eternity, how love made him stupid and how glorious it was, how holding her like this was like an arrow to the heart. 

 ‘Ashwen,’ he said softly.  ‘I think we have to move.’ 

 She shook her head against his throat. 

 ‘Ashwen,’ he said more firmly, ‘I think the cloak pin has stabbed me.’ 

 She leapt back and he sucked air in through clenched teeth, pulled at his jacket and shirt to peer down at the fleshy spot below his collarbone.  In this light it was impossible to see properly, but he didn’t think the skin had been broken.  ‘No harm done,’ he smiled, but she looked stricken.   He tugged the fabric back in a show of genuineness.  ‘It’s fine,’ he insisted. 

 ‘I’ve just stabbed you with the heirloom you gave me,’ she said.  ‘Is this a metaphor?’

 ‘ _No_.  It means we have to practise more.’  He offered his arm again. 

 


	6. Vigil's Keep

\---

  Near the end of the path, Shar darted forward like a bolt and Teagan remembered the goats. He stiffened in alarm. 

 ‘There was a goat herder,’ he began. 

 She laughed.  ‘Eliot.  He likes to play door ward for me.  Did he give you a rough time?’

 ‘Oh yes,’ he said, and she grinned wickedly. 

 ‘Zevran came through here last year and got a proper talking to.  Zev charmed his socks off, of course.  Showed him a bunch of knife tricks.  The boy adores him now.  Eliot’s on his own; was before the Blight, I think.  He does all right.’   

 The dog made a beeline for the boy, who tossed him some scraps.  From here Teagan couldn’t quite tell what kind of meat it was.  He didn’t follow that line of thought.

 ‘He give you any trouble, Messere?’ the goatherd shouted. 

 ‘No,’ she called back.  ‘He loves me!’ 

 Eliot, damn him, scrunched his face up in disgust.  ‘Huh,’ he said.  ‘All right then.’  He whistled for the goats and herded them away.   

 ---

 The walk back in the twilight was quiet.  A light breeze rustled the grass. He wanted to tell her everything, every tiny speck of memory he had of her, of every night spent in Redcliffe brooding in front of the fire over her, of all the letters he’d written and rewritten and fretted over in fear that he’d betray himself.  Of how he’d noticed every change in her, her confidence built over the years of Blight and command, her smiles and worries, her kindnesses and judgments – because he knew how smothering it was for her, how strong she had to be in the face of everything thrown at her.  Her letters of the past couple of years, dictated to an obviously frazzled secretary, had revealed a woman out of her depth but determined to swim. 

 She had trusted him after their cagey beginning during the Blight; they had early on discovered a shared appreciation for comfortable silences and confidences.   Their camaraderie had been a rock in the stream of his life.  Now he couldn’t form words. 

 ‘When I met you in the Chantry in Redcliffe, I thought you were mocking me.  You called me “my lady” and I wanted to punch you,’ Ashwen said genially.  

 He spluttered.  ‘That’s – hardly the impression you gave _me_ ,’ he said. 

 ‘Glad to hear it.’ 

 They walked on.  He gave it a few minutes.  ‘ _I_ thought _you_ looked dangerous, and not to be trifled with.  Tomas had told me you’d driven off the bandits outside of town, so I assumed you weren’t bad news – far from it:  your arrival was so fortuitous I thought the Maker himself had sent you.  You know all this already.’ 

 ‘Yes,’ she murmured.

 ‘And then one of you turned out to be Alistair!  But Ashwen, I could only look at _you_.  You were disheveled and desperate, yet you had a determined spark I found inescapably compelling.  “My lady” was the least I could manage.  Andraste take me – it’s not actually my habit to tell strange women I hope to marry someone like them someday!’   

 She quirked a smile.  ‘Well, I suppose I did ask,’ she said.  ‘Not really my habit either.’ 

 ‘Why did you?’ 

 ‘We’re nearly there.  There should be a patrol around now.  If there isn’t, there’ll be hell to pay.’  She surged forward and in short order there was a shout in challenge.  She greeted the guards and turned back to Teagan.  ‘Meet you in an hour?’  and she was off again, leaving Teagan startled in her wake.  _Something wrong there._ He had embarrassed her, but couldn’t guess how. 

 A couple of the guards waited politely for him and escorted him back to the Keep.

 ‘Syl,’ one said to the other.  ‘You smell that?  Like Andraste’s Grace.  Haven’t smelled that in years.’ 

 His partner shrugged her broad shoulders.  ‘Sorry, Agnu, wouldn’t know.’

 ***

 Years and years ago now – longer than he liked to think – young Teagan had attended the Grand Tourney and casually befriended a contestant from Hansmal.  Berthold had been a funny, chummy, handsome, extroverted young man who joked and flirted with all and sundry.  He had appreciated Teagan’s dry humour, and Teagan had enjoyed playing the straight man for his japes. 

 Then, halfway through the tournament, without a word, Berthold had disappeared back home.  Teagan had only learned about it when he overheard another contender grousing to her friend in a tavern.  Berthold had had an unhappy secret.  Sometime in his past he had been mistreated by a lover, and this woman at the Tourney had become tired of dealing with his difficulties.  ‘He just won’t get over it,’ she’d griped.  ‘He keeps seizing up.  I told him, What’s the point of being at the Tourney if you can’t even deal with _that_?  It happened ages ago.  You’re supposed to be strong or you’ve already failed.’ 

 The friend had hummed in agreement; Teagan had been horrified and powerless.  He was young enough to be idealistic and to know something of sexual temptation, but also been perceptive enough to recognise the cruelty of what he was witnessing.  He’d vowed on the spot never to be what this woman in the tavern was.  He’d never had to test it. 

 Now, waiting for Ashwen in his room, he found himself thinking of Berthold and his silent, secret pain.

 

 ***

 It was closer to three hours before there was a knock at his door.  He opened it to find a sheepish Ashwen with plates of food and cups, and a bottle under her arm.  ‘Sorry,’ she said.  ‘I got tied up.  It never ends.’ 

 He opened the door wide and she slipped past him, depositing the tray on a table.  ‘You look worn out,’ he said.  ‘Is it always like this?’

 ‘No – yes.  Well, sort of.  Most of my time here has been tackling the darkspawn problem, but now it’s almost all administrative.  It’s not my strong point.’ 

 ‘No?  I’m astonished.’ 

 She shoved his shoulder.  ‘Shut it, you,’ she admonished, but she was blushing.  The joke had been feeble but he felt like a champion. 

 She poured wine for them both and settled at one side of the table, and piled her plate high with meats and little potatoes, which kept rolling off.   She still had a Warden’s appetite.  ‘We missed supper, and they’re bloody strict about it!  Aren’t I their boss or something?’   

 After eating their fill, they both sat back and sipped the wine.  Companionable silence like the old days, but this time he needed answers.  He dipped his chin down and looked up at her seriously.  ‘Why, when we first met, did you ask if I was married?’ 

 He watched in distress as her face shut down.  ‘Ashwen,’ he said gently, ‘if this is going to work, we have to talk to each other.  I know you have to keep Warden secrets, but I want to know anything else you can tell me.  We must trust one other.  I won’t think poorly of you.’ 

 She kept her eyes on her goblet.  ‘I want this to work.  I _do_.  I never thought I’d have this conversation with anyone.’  She took a long pull from her cup, stared at nothing.  Eventually asked her wine: ‘Do you know why I joined the Wardens?’

 ‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘Alistair spoke to me early on – but I’d heard about it already.  Such news travels fast.’  

 ‘I bet.’  She sat swirling the liquid in her cup.  ‘My father was servant to a noble….’

 ‘Bann Rodolf,’ Teagan supplied.

 ‘Yes.  Father said he was a fair man.  But the Arl of Denerim’s son –’ she stopped, took another long pull. 

 ‘Urien spoiled him, let him get away with anything,’ Teagan spoke carefully.  Ashwen nodded.  ‘And on your wedding day, he abducted you and your bridesmaids back to his estate to use you.  I do know.  You don’t have to tell me, it’s all right.’   

 ‘He said there was a law.’

 ‘There isn’t.’ 

 ‘Yeah, I learned that later,’ she said bitterly.  ‘He and his friends…hurt Shianni badly.  He didn’t – I didn’t go through what she did.  Most of us…escaped, and Duncan conscripted me so I wouldn’t be executed for killing the son of the Arl.  Then after Ostagar, _you_ were the first noble I met.  I think I had an idea that if you were married you’d be less of a threat?  I don’t know.  That’s the truth, Teagan: _I don’t know_.   I wasn’t thinking clearly.  We were in a terrible spot.  We had just seen the Wardens and the King and half the army wiped out, and then we were running for our lives.  Alistair was grieving Duncan, and relying on me to make decisions.  _Me!_   He said we could trust you, so I did.  I had to, but I was terrified of you.  It all sounds so stupid when I say it.’

 ‘No.  It doesn’t.’

 She gave a half-hearted smile.  ‘I’m glad I trusted you.’ 

 He smiled back.  ‘Me too.’  He refilled their cups.  ‘Vaughan had a bad reputation, but until Alistair provided the details, I hadn’t realised how sadistic he’d become.  If I had known –’

 ‘ _Stop_.  If you’d known, then _nothing_.  Lots of people knew.  No one did anything, because it was just elves.’   

 ‘Ashwen –’

 ‘It’s true.  You say you want me, Teagan, but this is part of it.  There was no law, but they got away with it.  They murdered one of my bridesmaids for telling them to leave us alone.  Her name was Nola.  Then they killed my fiance Nelaros for trying to help me.  Ever heard of either of them?  No, because we don't count as people.  Teagan, I can’t not be an elf, or pretend it’s not going to matter.  _Liability_.’

  ‘I _love_ your liability.  Still.  Always.’ 

  She scrunched her face at him in exasperation.  ‘And something else:  Wardens can’t have children.’ 

  He nodded.  ‘Yes, I know that too.  Don’t care.  That was Eamon’s bailiwick, and look how well that worked out.’  He shifted his chair forward and held his hands out.  Ashwen looked dubious but placed her own in them, and he folded his thumbs over her fingers.  ‘There will never be a shortage of people to look after the lands – the monarch will award arlings and bannorns.  It doesn’t matter to me if it’s a Guerrin or not.’  He stroked across the delicate bones of her knuckles.  ‘And the truth is, people will look for reasons to think poorly of us no matter what.  Elf, Warden, Commander – these are merely convenient points of denouncement.  They will also say that I’m too old for you, that I’m trying to enlarge my holdings, that the King is attempting to consolidate power through family ties.  All of it is nonsense; it’s always nonsense.  When it isn’t, they go straight for blackmail.  If you weren’t an elf, they would find something else to blame you for.  That’s just politics.  I hate it too.   

  'You're right that I didn't know about your friends, and for that I am sorry.  I should have known.  _Everyone_ should have known.  If you're willing, I'd like to hear more about them. 

  ‘I’ve been thinking:  I expect you could use a holiday.  Surely Amaranthine can function without you for a short while.  If you’re willing, come with me to Redcliffe and rest there until after Feastday.  You don’t have to stay with me – Bella would be happy to put you up if you prefer.  But give yourself some time just to consider, where you don’t have Weisshaupt breathing down your neck, and you don’t have to think about people like Bann Esmerelle.  I won’t – I won’t _bother_ you.  It would just be a break.’   

  She kept her eyes on their joined hands.  It was unlike her to be so quiet; he wasn’t sure he liked that he had precipitated it.  Irreverent, scrappy, deceptively strong – that was her usual demeanour.  He was afraid he had bungled it all in spite of getting to kiss her only a few hours ago. 

  ‘What if I _like_ being bothered?’ she asked slyly, and she blushed to her ear tips again.  She quirked a devilish glance up at him.   

   _Maker take me._   ‘Well, that I can certainly arrange,’ he agreed.   

  She bit her lip.  ‘…Now?’ 

  A spark hit his groin, his stomach, his fingers, his tongue.  ‘I think I could manage now,’ he said, and drew her hands up and touched lips to her knuckles, smiled against the renewed trembling.  He delicately kissed each one, then turned her hands over and kissed fingertips, palms, wrists.  She tilted a hand to trace her thumb along his cheekbone, and he bit his cheek to keep from licking her.  He caught hold of her hand instead, and leaned back.  ‘One rule,’ he croaked, and had to clear his throat.  ‘You promise to tell me if I’m pushing too far.  All right?’  That earned him a surprised look.  ‘I don’t want to be a reminder of anything terrible.  A human, a noble, all that.  I won’t cause you hurt, ever.  You won’t offend me.  You must tell me if you’re uncomfortable.’ 

  ‘Of course I trust you.  Being human doesn’t bother me.  I travelled for two years with _Alistair_ , and he’s not exactly a shrinking violet.’ 

  ‘Promise me, Ashwen.  Please.’ 

  Ashwen sat before him curiously.  ‘Yes,’ she said.  ‘I _promise_.  OK?’

  He bumped her forehead with his own.  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There’s a story there,’ she said. 

  ‘Yes.  But not for tonight.’  

  They blinked into each other’s gaze for a few seconds.  She heaved a sigh. She was dead tired, he noticed now, practically wilting before him.  The poplar was losing its summer strength. 

  ‘Do you need to rest?’ 

  She grimaced but acquiesced.  ‘Yes, I think I’d better.’

  She held his eye for another moment, then quick as a match flare kissed him one-two-three times, biting his lip gently on the last one.   She leaned back blushing again, and slipped her hands out of his while he sat startled with his mouth hanging open like a dimwit.  It wasn’t until her saw her make for his window that he roused himself.  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Heading back to my room.’

  ‘Through the _window?_ ’ 

   ‘I have a personal guard.  I’m not permitted _not_ to have one.  Fine.  Keep ‘em on their toes.’  She swung open the casement, caught hold of the sash, and turned back to him.  ‘I’ll speak with Mistress Woolsey in the morning.  When do you want to leave?’ 

 ‘You mean it?’  Even to his own ears he sounded like a giddy child.  

 She meant it. 

  

****

 


	7. Travelling, first day

***

 Three days.  That’s how long it took for Ashwen to wriggle out of the arling’s clutches. 

 They’d said their goodbyes, had packs over their shoulders, and now finally passed through the great gates.  ‘They’re sending another Warden while I’m away.  She’s from Orlais.’ 

  ‘Really?  That will be interesting.  Bann Bitchy will love that.’

  ‘She has a name, you know,’ Ashwen said archly.

  'My mistake.’

 ‘They think Nathaniel is too contentious.  So does he.  I suppose they’re right, but I hate that he’s stuck being subordinate in his family home.’   She frowned.

 ‘They’re right.  Esmerelle would jump at the chance to use him.  I’m sure she wouldn’t succeed, but it would still cause trouble, and I think Nathaniel is fairly content.  I remember him being a rather angry young man.  Not anymore.’ 

 ‘That’s all my doing, of course.’ 

 ‘Sweetheart.’  He placed both hands on her shoulders, smiled down at her incredulously.  ‘ _Yes_.  It is.’ 

 She blushed beautifully.  Teagan very much enjoyed how often he could make her do that.  ‘Not really.  We met his sister in Amaranthine market.  She set him straight.’ 

 The day was fine and just warm enough not to need cloaks, ideal for long walking.   They would travel lightly, pick up his horse in Stoppington, then wend their way back round to Redcliffe.  When he’d asked if she wanted to go to Denerim first, she’d said no.  Too awkward, too many questions to answer. 

 She didn’t want to see Alistair? Her father?

 ‘Alistair will only gloat,’ she’d said.  Teagan couldn’t argue, though one day he would have a chat with his King about how to play matchmaker.  And Cyrion – she wanted some time.  Teagan thought he understood.

 Ashwen had packed her second-best set of armour, and today wore simple travelling clothes, flat grey-brown with grey hood.  It allowed her to nearly disappear in the dim pre-dawn light.  ‘I feel like I have to keep an eye on you,’ Teagan groused.

 ‘Maybe that’s the point,’ she flashed her eyes at him and quirked her mouth.   

 ‘Are you sure you don’t want your Warden uniform?’

 ‘I’m incognito for the trip.  Besides, they’re sending that and winter gear along behind us.  I’m not going to need it.’ 

 ‘So I have you all to myself?’

 ‘That’s the idea.  Is – is that all right?’

 He caught her hand and kissed it.  Smiled into the palm.  ‘It’s perfect.’

 

 ---

 They set a good pace and the dawn peeled away into full morning.  They were back to their easy, companionable silences, now punctuated with sly touching and stolen kisses.  He learned that her throat was sensitive, and the tips of her ears ( _Oh Maker, sucking on her pointed ears was divine_ ) , and if he kissed the outside corners of her eyes she would shiver from head to toe.  For now, they had the road to themselves and took advantage of it. 

\---

 

‘Are you sure you don’t have any magic?  Because I’m bewit–’

‘Oh, Maker’s ass.’  She punched his arm. 

 

\---

 Geese honked mournfully overhead in a great flock; Ashwen tipped back her head to watch them.  ‘I never saw them before I joined the Wardens,’ she said.  ‘They don’t go over Denerim.  They’re beautiful.  They go away and return every year.  Do you think this is home for them, or is it where they go in winter?’ 

 ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.  ‘I suppose I like to think that it’s here.’  He slipped an arm around her while they watched the birds.  Her shoulder fit perfectly under his arm.  _How?_ he thought – _How_ had this remarkable woman been cooped up in that fetid city for two-and-a-half decades ?  Never knowing green fields, or orchards, or forests or lakes or even the damn geese?  The injustice of it sickened him, all the more so because she had been right the other night – _If you had known, then nothing.  Lots of people knew.  No one did anything, because it was just elves_. 

 He’d never really had to think about it.  Well _no more_.  He would be better than this. 

  

\---

‘Are you Dalish?  Because you look like a Keep–’

 ‘Stop.  _Are_ you actually Teagan?  You look like him, but you don’t sound like him.’ 

 He grinned at her, pleased with himself.  ‘You just make me foolish.’

 ‘It shows.  These lines are awful.’

 ‘Oh, well.’

 

\---

  There was a spot just off the road for travellers, a little glade near a stream that fed into the Hafter River.  It boasted a firepit and a small supply of wood.  They paused here to heat some early supper and enjoy a short rest.  If they pushed on after this, they should make it to Stoppington before the village gates closed.  

 ‘Oh, damn it.  I’ve forgotten my flint.  Do you have any?’

 He rummaged in his pockets.  An old coin, a piece of string, and the envelope Cyrion’s letter had been in.  ‘Hang on – there’s a slip of paper in here.  The handwriting is terrible.’  He screwed up his eyes, working out the words.  ‘ “ _Hey Cousin, Teagan is all right.  Nose too big.  Good voice though.  If he causes you any trouble I’ll have him kicked for you.  No Wardens implicated.  Shianni._ ”  Well of all the nerve –’

 Ashwen howled with laughter. 

 Teagan scowled and wrenched open his pack, located the flint, bent to the woodpile.  ‘I’ll get this started, shall I?’  he said curtly.

 ‘Oh, my poor Teagan,’ she said, her smile showing through her voice.  She pulled a cooking pan from her own pack and tripped along to the stream, running a hand up the length of his back as she passed. 

 In the near distance a horse whickered; soon he could hear its hoofbeats.  He straightened and turned to see an armoured figure approach in the livery of Amaranthine.  He squinted until he could see the horseman properly. 

 ‘It’s…Syl, isn’t it?’ he called. 

 The guard from the patrol of the other night saluted him.  ‘Arl Teagan,’ she greeted as she dismounted.  ‘You’ve made good time.’ 

 Teagan kept his voice genial.  ‘You’re not here to catch up with us, are you?’ he asked.

 Nevertheless, she caught his note of trepidation and shook her head.  ‘No, Messere, not to worry.  I’m sent to Denerim on other business.  Drew the short straw.’ 

 ‘Did you now?  I would have thought a trip to the city would be a coveted job.  I assume you’re not delivering bad news.’ 

 Syl scanned their environs with a practiced eye and squatted before the fire, hands warming near the new flames.  ‘No, Messere, but still:  most of us prefer to stay at the Keep.  Our Arlessa is much-loved – I don’t say that to flatter.  To be honest,’ she said with a half-grin, ‘the coveted assignment is her personal guards.  We take it in turns.  She leads us all on a merry chase.  Heard she ’scaped out your window your first night.  She beat them that time.’ 

 Teagan shook his head.  ‘That took me by surprise, I must admit.’ 

 Syl nodded with a chuckle.  ‘It’s her way.  Dislikes being confined. Kicked up a fuss being told she had to have guards with her everywhere, so this was her way of defying it.  We enjoy it – get to run around the keep like youngsters.  Make a game of it.  Not much in our line is fun, you know how it is.’

 Yes, he knew how it was.  Guards had to be reliable, quiet, and able to function during long bouts of boredom and all weathers.  Not much fun, indeed. 

 Ashwen returned with water, and Syl shared food and tea with them.  She was a stable figure, built like a rock with the same no-nonsense air of the average boulder.  After supper, she helped clean up, gathered her meagre things, thumped fists on opposite shoulders with a tight bow, and mounted her horse to disappear into the distance in short order.  Looking around, you’d never know she had been there at all. 

 ‘They’re beautiful, too,’ Ashwen said wistfully.

 ‘Guards?’ he asked.

 ‘ _Horses_.’ 

 ‘Yes,’ he agreed happily.  ‘They are.’

 ‘Smell bad, though.’

 ‘So do geese.’

 'Well there goes that dream.  Does _anything_ not smell?’ 

 ‘No.’ 

 ‘You realist, you.’ 

 ‘That’s me,’ he sang. 

 She rounded on him with startled eyes.  ‘You sounded _exactly_ like Alistair!’ 

 He was thoroughly horrified.  ‘No no no,’ he snorted.  ‘ _He_ may sound a bit like _me_ – _perhaps_ ; but never the other way around, my dear.  Maker take me, never that.’   

 She laughed and threw herself at him; he caught her and spun her round and round, dropped her only enough that he could meet her lips, clung for lingering minutes in sheer happiness.  Today was the best day of his life so far – and the best part was, tomorrow would be better.  And the day after that, and the day after _that_.  There was no more Blight, the darkspawn were all but gone, and this poison the Wardens suffered from could be cured, surely.  How hard could it be? 

 Life was very, very good. 

 

 ---

 ‘Do you believe in the Maker?’

 ‘I – what?  Why?’

 ‘Because you just answered my pra–’

 ‘Oh honestly, Teagan.’  She stopped, hands on her hips.  ‘You got these from Alistair.’ 

 Unmasked at last.  He tried to look innocent, knowing he was merely contorting his face badly. 

 She shook her head at him.  ‘For shame, Arl.’ 

  

\---

 He felt lighter and better than he had in decades.  He couldn’t stop smiling.  

 He was still left with the little moment on the hillside, the little nothing that had niggled at his brain when he’d read her father’s letter to her.  The song mystery solved – Andraste be praised - now he fretted at this one. Every time he tried to pin down what it was that bothered him, it slipped away from him. She hadn’t done anything strange - no facial expression, no warning sound, nothing like that - but he couldn’t let go the notion that there was a subtext to that exchange that he was wholly ignorant of.

 In the meantime, the day was fine and his love was at his side, and what was he doing wasting attention on this when he could focus on here and now?  The slope of her neck, for example. Wide attentive eyes. Full kissable lips. Speaking of which –

 ‘Hey!’  The giggling belied her protest.

  

\---

 ‘Are you from Tevinter?  Because you’ve completely enslaved m–’

 ‘Have any of these lines worked on another person, in the history of ever?’

 ‘I think I read that once in the Blessed Age –’

 She appealed to the skies.  ‘Now, Maker: take me now.’

 'Well, if that’s what you’d like –’

 She grabbed his arm and looked him dead in the eye.  ‘Yes?’ 

 His blood drained from his face and chest and pooled in his groin.  Again.  ‘Woman, what you do to me…’ he growled.  His hands clutched her shoulders and he gritted his teeth.  An ugly part of him prompted him to take stock of their surroundings, looking for a good spot.  _No_ , the last of his virtuous self protested in a bleat, _you can’t rut in a field with this woman.  Andraste’s breath, at least get into town first!_   He leaned in and touched her forehead with his, like they had on the hillside.  Breathed hard.  Her eyes sparkled back at his and he knew himself for utterly lost.  ‘You will never not have the upper hand,’ he ground out, ‘but please let us make it to Stoppington before they close the gates for the night.’ 

 She laughed happily and pecked his nose.  ‘Let’s go, then.’ 

 ---


	8. Stoppington

\---

 They did manage to make it before evening gate-close.  It was barely dusk when they arrived.  The guards saluted Teagan as they crossed into the town.  The late light bronzed Stoppington in welcoming warmth.  Shar ran off to explore, and they headed directly to the inn where Teagan had left his horse.  ‘We can stay the night here, and decide in the morning which route we want to take to Redcliffe.  If we’re not going to Denerim, it might be faster if we take the northern route – that would mean doubling back again, I’m afraid.’ 

 ‘I don’t mind,’ she smiled, and squeezed his hand. 

 Teagan had lightened his burden at the imaginatively-named North Gate Inn, a well-appointed, ancient spot at the end of its own little drive.  It was convenient and popular.  He trusted their stables with his favourite mount, Brock, having stayed there before and being impressed with their horsemaster.  Now all he wanted was to have a short meal and a long rest.  And a bath.  A bath would be nice.  Ashwen strode ahead of him, and he imagined her in the bath with him.  Then his brain shut down. 

 He was still pondering baths when they entered the inn’s courtyard, and Ashwen made a beeline for the main door, marching straight past the obnoxiously large _Knyfe Eares Unwellcome_ sign nailed next to the bell.  Teagan grinned to himself and hailed the stablehand.  He would check on Brock before settling in. 

 

\---

 Ashwen reappeared in the doorway, backing out, fists clenched.  Angry.  Even from here Teagan could see that she was shaking.  _What on earth has happened?_ he thought.  _She’s only been in there a couple of minutes!_

 ‘Why should I?’ she demanded.  The landlord followed her, face like a thunderclap, trying to loom over her but not nearly quick enough.  Ashwen’s hands drifted toward her daggers.  _Maker’s breath, is she going to STAB the innkeeper?_

 She glanced over her shoulder and caught Teagan’s eye.  Froze.  The moment seemed to twist in time, and Teagan found himself watching his beloved turn red-faced and cast her eyes down.  She wouldn’t look at him.  Her features turned exactly like a mask – no emotion, no flicker of movement.  It was as though Ashwen had disappeared, leaving a shell behind.  Her fists clenched and unclenched uselessly.

 At first he was merely bewildered.  _Scrappy, irreverent, brave, determined_ – these things were Ashwen.  The words appeared in his mind in easy, quick succession.  Teagan had a list of adjectives for her so long he could use a different one every day of the year.  This cowed, inanimate figure was completely foreign.  It wasn’t until the puffing landlord opened his mouth that he realised what must have happened. 

 ‘You show your face near here again and I’ll set the dog on you!’  The burly man bellowed, and thrust a stubby finger at the detestable sign.  Behind him, some half-wolfen creature growled obligingly from the dim interior.  All eyes were upon them, in the courtyard and peeking from inside the inn. 

 Teagan for a few witless moments was simply confused.  No one could possibly be so stupid and callous as to _set the dog on_ Warden-Commander Tabris.  _But_ , he remembered, she wasn’t in Warden uniform, and she didn’t look like anything special except to him.  And where the hell was Shar?

 Ashwen hadn’t read the sign.

 Recent memories flashed into Teagan’s mind, slotting into place like bolts into a crossbow then firing straight into his chest:  glancing at her over Cyrion’s missive, the letters scratched carefully:  _Hahren writes for me_ ; Ashwen looking at him hesitantly: _‘My father says this?’_ ; Cyrion carefully telling him: _‘She was a runner, and a good one._ ’

 That was it – _that’s_ what had bothered him when he had presented himself to her in the early orange of sunset.  A _good runner_ would be quick, reliable, and not read the messages entrusted to them.  How much better for her employers if they were _sure?_  

  Ashwen had dictated all her letters to him. 

  He froze, staring at his beloved.  How on earth had he not known this?  Before he could act, the landlord caught sight of him. 

 ‘Ah, Arl Teagan of Redcliffe!  We’re blessed to have you again!  Meurig –’ he turned to the man just inside the doorway, but balked when he saw him.  ‘Oh, Breaga.  Thought you were Meurig.  You seen him?  Need him to carry the Arl’s things!’ 

 Breaga, a lean man with a shock of red hair, had an intelligent look about him.  He glanced between Teagan and Ashwen and back to the landlord.  ‘He’s in the buttery, Cenric.  I have to get back.’  He tugged a forelock at Teagan and glided past Ashwen and out the gate.  ‘I’m paid up!’ he called over his shoulder. 

 ‘Ah, excuse me a moment, Your Grace,’ the landlord said, and disappeared back inside.  The wolfish dog snuffed at him.  ‘Meurig!  _Meurig!_   Come _out_ , boy!’

 Ashwen still wouldn’t look up.  She looked, Teagan thought miserably, like her father had when he’d answered Elder Valendrian’s summons.  That anyone could so quickly reduce this effervescent woman to an ashamed, downtrodden underclass filled him with disgusted, cold fury.  She looked paralysed – but _he_ wasn’t.  He was a fucking _Arl_ and it was about time on this trip that that actually counted for something. 

 He managed to school his features and gestured to the stablehand.  By the time the servant boy appeared, Brock was saddled and stamping in the middle of the courtyard, ready to go.  Ashwen had shifted around so that she stood on the far side opposite the inn’s door, her colouring blending her into the straw behind her.  She still kept her face down.  Teagan couldn’t stand it.

 ‘You are Meurig?’ he asked, voice clipped.  The boy nodded.  ‘I left some things here.  Fetch them.’  Meurig bowed hastily, catching his tone, and bustled out of sight.  Teagan turned to his horse and adjusted the stirrups, took slow, deep breaths, kept his jaw from clenching.  He could coast on a cold rage. 

 When Meurig returned, he took the bags from the boy and gave him a coin.  ‘That’s for you,’ he said, ‘and this is my payment to the house.’  He handed over a small jingling pouch.  He opened one of the bags the boy had brought and rummaged inside. 

 The landlord reappeared, face flushed.  ‘Your room is ready!’ he beamed.  ‘I’ve prepared it myself.  Wh– are you not staying, Your Grace?  Surely the town gates have closed for the night.  You _must_ stay.’ 

 Teagan drew out the cloak he’d been looking for and reclosed his pack, tucking it into the saddlebag with its fellow.  He threw the cloak across the pommel and carefully kept his expression impassive as he held out a hand to Ashwen.  She shot him a panicked look that pierced his heart, but he stepped forward and grasped her hand, drew her towards him.  He didn’t trust his voice, could only hope his eyes spoke for him:  _I love you, I love you, I love you_.  At Brock’s side, he crooked a knee to stoop and cupped his hands.  Her back was to the men of the inn; her face looked frantic.  Teagan considered only half a moment, then whispered so only she could hear: ‘Left foot in my hands, and swing over when I lift.’ 

 She followed his instructions flawlessly, even made it look like she’d done it a hundred times before.  _Of course_ , he thought smugly.  _Of course she did.  That’s my darling_.  He passed the cloak to her with a slow wink; she swallowed and carefully pulled it over her shoulders.  Head high.  The cloak was far too long for her and draped along the horse’s flanks.  She looked like something out of an old story.  Brock, stouthearted old friend, stood stock-still and carried her magnificently. 

 Teagan finally turned again to find the landlord goggling at them.  ‘The Arlessa and I will not be staying,’ he said evenly. 

  _Don’t shout,_ he thought, _don’t threaten, don’t dream up cutting phrases, don’t waste your time.  Make this bastard do all the work for you._   The landlord would figure it out for himself – even now his face was falling – and word would get out, and Teagan need not _do_ anything, no matter how much he wanted personally to throttle this worm and make him _eat_ his fucking sign.  It was more effective to make it look effortless on his end.

 Teagan grasped the reins, placed himself in front of the horse.  ‘Warden-Commander?’ he asked, pitching his voice so that it sounded natural but carried.  Ashwen nodded stiffly, and on Teagan’s signal Brock advanced out upon the cobblestones, raising his hooves high – prancing, the old show-off. 

 Outside the courtyard, Teagan saw the red-haired man lounging against a wall.  The man perked up as they approached. 

 ‘Looking for a place to stay the night, by any chance, Messeres?’ he asked. 

 Teagan narrowed his eyes and nodded. 

 ‘Then I recommend Aethelind Hind’s.  Her lodgings are near the southern gate.  Keep to this road along the edge of town.  She calls it _The Hind Quarters_ – bit of a joke name, but clean, good food, and no _problems_.’ 

 Teagan thanked him with another coin, and Breaga tugged his forelock again and ducked away into an alley.  They had the road to themselves, but Teagan felt eyes upon them.  A stealthy glance toward the town caught faces watching from windows overlooking the street. 

 Above him, Ashwen’s voice dropped down.  ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

 ‘Like hell I didn’t.’

 ‘I should have realised.  Incognito, right?  Clever me.’ 

 He _hated_ the bitterness in her tone. 

 ‘That guy was an asshole,’ she declared after a few minutes.

 ‘Yes,’ he agreed.  ‘Though I didn’t know it until today.’

 After another pause, she spoke again. ‘Teagan?’

 ‘Yes, love?’

 ‘How do I not fall off?’

 ‘Brock won’t let you fall, but if you wish, hold on to the saddle horn.  It will help you keep your balance.’ 

 ‘Is that the thing that looks a bit like a –’

 ‘ _Yes_.’

 ‘Wait – Brock?  Is this Brock?  He used to let me rub his nose!’ 

 ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling into the memories and the deepening gloom.  ‘He did.  He’ll let you again when we stop.’ 

 They continued for about half an hour, quiet as the night descended, the horse’s clopping hooves a comforting rhythm.  The town wall on their left gradually disappeared into the growing darkness, giving the illusion of vastness; while on their right Stoppington itself began to glow with candlelight through windows.

 ‘Teagan.’

 ‘Yes?’

 ‘I’m sorry.’

 His fist spasmed around the reins; Brock snorted in reaction.  ‘We can talk about this later,’ he said firmly, ‘but you have nothing to apologise for.  _Nothing_.’ 

 ---

 


	9. Stoppington II

\---

 The stupidly-named Hind Quarters was more modest than the old North Gate Inn, but it was indeed clean, and the aroma greeting them as they entered promised the good food Breaga had spoken of.  The atmosphere was boisterous and Aethelind Hind was rather too obviously waiting for them.  Teagan scanned the room and thought he caught sight of bright hair disappearing into the kitchen. 

 ‘Not very subtle, is he?’ The innkeeper asked.  Teagan turned to see that she had watched him making his assessment.  Messere Hind shrugged.  ‘You can’t choose family.’ 

  _Ah_.  ‘Your…brother?’ he hazarded. 

 ‘Yes, indeed.  Same height, but that’s about all.’  She smiled.  She wasn’t lean like Breaga, and instead was quite comfortably built and raven-haired.  They shared the same sharp look of intelligence, however.  ‘He thought to do me a favour, of course, which was kind – but he was late already.  Small towns love gossip more even than festivals.  We’d already heard about Cenric.  Pretentious old bigot.’  She spoke to Ashwen directly, who had kept silent since her apology.  ‘And, lest you think I’m just seizing an opportunity, Messere, I can tell you I’ve never yet turned elves away.  Not that there have been many come through here, but you’re not the first, and I trust won’t be the last. 

 ‘Stelha! Robbick!’ she called over her shoulder.  Two servants clattered down the stairs.  ‘I’ve ordered baths for both of you – can get a bit mucky this time of year; thought you might want them.  And you can eat supper down here, or I can send it up, if you’d prefer not to spend your meal getting stared at by the locals.’  Here she leveled a gaze at a nearby table; the three patrons quickly pretended they hadn’t been doing exactly that. 

 Teagan glanced at Ashwen, who made a noncommittal movement.  ‘Upstairs for supper, I think,’ he said. 

 ‘Very wise.  Rivaini goat stew, or cheese soup with bacon?’ 

 ‘Soup,’ he said quickly, remembering Eliot's goats.  Ashwen looked like she was about to protest, so he shot her a pleading look and pushed ahead.  ‘And I could use that bath about now, please.’ 

 Robbick took his things and led him to a small washing room, where Teagan found a hot bath waiting.  Behind them, Stelha escorted Ashwen to another chamber.  The servant waited while he fished out clean clothes from his pack, then bowed out. 

 Teagan was left to his bath and his thoughts.  He sluiced water over his head and replayed the events of the past tenday.  He hadn’t suffered through this much emotional intensity – the ups and downs and epiphanies – since the Blight.  It had sapped him entirely.  _But:_ he wasn’t heading home heartbroken with his tail between his legs, because she loved him.  _She loved him_.  He huffed out a laugh and shook his head at his good fortune.  Water droplets splashed onto the floor.

 He scrubbed between his toes.  Maker, this evening had been a travesty.  The happiest day of his life so far – _ha_.  He couldn’t remember when he’d last been that angry.  Praise Andraste he wasn’t a mage:  there was no possible way he could have kept a demon from claiming him in that moment.  And he’d stayed at that inn before, never knowing – no, _never having to think about_ – how someone like Ashwen might be treated there, because why would he? 

  _If you’d known, then nothing.  Lots of people knew.  It was just elves._

 He dried off and threw the fresh shirt over his head.  She’d saved his life – what?  two, three, four times, he counted.  That he knew about.  Many people had been kept from death’s door who never knew they had Ashwen to thank for it.  Well, all right.  He couldn’t repay that – no one could – but he _could_ be something good in her life, surely, and he had a few ideas where to start. 

 Three hours ago, he’d wanted to take her in a field and lose himself.  Now he was exhausted, emotionally drained, and too painfully aware of his own privilege.  And the damn sign.  He hadn't known she couldn't read - it had never occurred to him to think about that, either.  He must be one of the few people in her circle who didn't know.  Yet another thing he'd never thought to bother about.  _Shit._   He would have to be more careful, more attentive, more knowledgeable.  More work.  Well, he’d never shied away from work, and surely he didn't have a worthier cause. 

 Teagan caught sight of his nose in the glass and, despite everything, couldn’t keep himself from examining it, turning his head as far to each side as he could while still being able to see himself.  His nose wasn’t big, was it?  It looked fine.  Maker, was he some kind of freak in profile?  And no one told him? 

 ---

 Upstairs, he found Ashwen occupying his room, supper laid out for them already.  ‘ _Soup?_ ’ she seethed.  ‘I’m a Warden.’ 

 ‘And bacon.’ 

 She pushed a plate toward him.  ‘The bread is very good.’ 

 There was, in fact, plenty of food.  Aethelind Hind’s fare was excellent. 

 Another shared supper in his room, another bottle of wine, another important conversation.  Once they’d eaten their fill, and the wine had relaxed them, he scooted his chair forward like he had the other night and took her hands again. 

 ‘My heart,’ he said, ‘forgive me.’  She frowned.  Her eyes drifted toward the bottle.  He shook his head.  ‘I’m quite sober.  Forgive me, for you have been warning me, and I haven’t paid it any mind.  “No one did anything, because it was just elves.”  You were right. I thought we could ignore all that and enjoy ourselves – could make what we want the new normal, and you could stop worrying and be happy.  I was naïve.  I should have listened.’ 

 She kept on frowning.  ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’ 

 He mulled that over.  ‘…Embarrassed?  You have nothing to apologise for, but I don’t wish to embarrass you.’ 

 Her eyes flashed.  ‘I _hate_ that you had to rescue me.’

  ‘I see.’  He pursed his lips, drew lines along the backs of her fingers.  ‘I spent part of my bath trying to count how many times you’ve saved my life.  It’s at least four.’ 

 ‘That’s different.  That was the Blight.’ 

 ‘Yes, different,’ he nodded.  ‘I haven’t had to risk my life to help you even once.’ 

 She scowled at him in earnest.  ‘It’s not just you.  During the Blight we mostly camped out, but we’d sometimes have to stay at an inn.  We could hardly show up looking like Wardens, so we’d wear plain clothing.  Until today I never thought about it, but Alistair always got the rooms and the meals.  He made a big joke about how he liked to be of service and we all rolled our eyes at him.  We thought he was sneaking a pint before the rest of us or something – but he wasn’t, was he?’ 

 This was so true to Alistair’s character that Teagan was sure she was right.  Of course Alistair had made certain that she’d never had to face what this evening had thrown at her, and of course he’d never said anything, had let them tease him about it.  ‘No,’ Teagan agreed quietly.  ‘I think he likely wasn’t.’ 

 ‘I haven’t had to think about this shit in a long time,’ she said, frown slipping away and flat unhappiness replacing it.  Teagan winced.  ‘Once you’re a Warden, that’s all people see.  Not an elf or dwarf or mage.  I’d sort of forgotten what it was like, or pushed it aside, anyway. 

  ‘Now, though – Teagan, this is what we’d be signing up for.  _This_ would be the new normal, not the nice fairy tale.  I don’t want your life to have to be like this just because I’m –’

  He hit his breaking point.  ‘Ashwen, _no_.’  He squeezed her hands.  ‘ _You are not a liability_.  You never were, and you never will be.  Never, you understand?  Your only liability is _me_ :  I’m the one who’s dragged you into this.  If you – if this brings you… harm, or sorrow, or – look, I can handle it.  Tell me – you must _tell_ me!  I will do whatever you ask.  But unless you _want_ me to go, I will fight with you, shield you, always, forever, until my breath leaves my body.  Unless you send me away, I’m here with you and I’m _not leaving_.’ 

 She stared at him wide-eyed and he realised belatedly that he sounded like a cheap character from one of his boyhood adventure tales.  Shit. 

 He let his head drop forward; his braid tickled their hands.  ‘Sweetheart,’ he groaned, ‘forgive my idiocy.   And my ignorance.  And my arrogance.  I hate that this happened, but I want to see it through.  If I thought a future together was futile I swear to you I would say so.’

 ‘Stop,’ she said.  ‘You’re not arrogant.’ 

 He raised his eyes.  She looked back at him hopefully, expression remarkably like Shar’s when he wanted play time.  Silence.  ‘You know,’ he said, not moving, drawing the words out, ‘I’m being serious, here.’ 

 She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and my humour is childish.  I’m not helping.’  She took a deep breath.  Looked into the fire.  ‘I’d like to fight at your side, too.  It scares me, but I want it.’  She peeped back at him and wriggled a hand free, tucked his braid behind his ear, ran her thumb along the line of his beard.  He turned his head and kissed her wrist.  ‘I promise to stab you if I think you’re not listening.’ 

 He grimaced.  ‘Speak to me first, please?  I’d like a fighting chance.’ 

 ‘Deal.’

 They sat facing each other, enjoying the intimacy of simple touching and affectionate smiles.  He drew lines on her palm, her jawline, her ear.  She threaded her fingers through his, traced his nailbeds, lightly pinched his fingertips.  Time stopped as they gazed at each other. 

 ‘Teagan?’

 ‘Yes, love?’

 ‘Why did you come to Amaranthine?’ 

 He squinted.  ‘Did I stutter?  Shall I ask you again?  I can re-enact it if you like.  I’ll have to find Shar.’ 

 She leaned back to shoot him a withering look.  ‘I mean _now_.  Why now?  Did something happen?’

 He paused.  Mabari clouds and Murdock and Bella.  He would prefer not to tell her about them, not yet.  It had been embarrassing enough the first time, and Ashwen would undoubtedly find it highly amusing.  Her humour was irrepressible.  It didn’t seem right in this moment, which felt solemn and precious, and he selfishly wanted to enjoy its seriousness.  He considered his life of the past few years, the aching loneliness of the castle, the letters written and rewritten and cast into the fire, the end of the Blight when he’d marched with Eamon’s men to Denerim because he couldn’t endure the prospect of not being nearby at the end, the joy she had brought into his life.  Redcliffe’s villagers had only drawn into the sunlight what he himself had tried to keep in the dark:  that the love he had for this woman was indestructible, ignoring it was only exhausting him, and that half of him occupied a place somewhere else. 

 The hot truth of the tavern nights in the Wardens’ company, sharing food and music and conviviality, came home to him again.  Leliana’s tune spun its song into his memories, and he cracked a half-smile and shrugged. 

 ‘ _I live not where I love_ ,’ he said simply. 

 She gasped out loud.  ‘Did you – did you _know_ about that?’ she demanded, and turned bright pink.  ‘All this time?’  Her face contorted and she hid it in her hands.  Curled up in her chair like a child.  ‘I’m going to _kill_ Leliana,' she declared into her knees.  'She played that tune in the tavern and Alistair thought it was really funny.  But I didn’t know the song, so she sang it for us in camp.  Then she played it every time we were in Redcliffe!  I wanted to hide whenever she did it, but you didn’t seem to notice so I thought I was safe.  _Shit_.’ 

 ‘No,’ he confessed, unable to keep from laughing.  ‘It’s shameful, but I didn’t.  I only figured it out a few days ago.  Don’t kill Leliana.  She’s very fond of you.’  In fact, had he worked out the bard’s song-ploy, he would without doubt have assumed it was aimed at someone else.  He’d never allowed himself to think beyond his own infatuation, to get past the assumption that it was all a mere wishful thinking of his own.  That Ashwen might return his affection was a ludicrous fantasy.  ‘The sad truth is, my darling, I’m a bit of a fool.’ 

 She peeked between her fingers.  ‘True.’ 

 He blinked and raised his eyebrows.  ‘Oh, yes?’ and quick as he could, reached out and scooped her out of her chair.  She saw it coming – because of course she did; who was he kidding? – but let him get away with it.  He held her in his lap; she giggled and let him kiss the hands covering her face until she dropped them, then caught her mouth and kissed hard.  When he left off, she was panting and his breeches were far too tight. 

 Downstairs, musicians had arrived and begun performing rollicking music.  Cheers and thumping dances could be heard.  It presented an atmosphere incongruous with that of his bedroom.  The drumbeats buzzed through the walls.  He didn’t like their distraction. 

 Ashwen bit her lower lip.  ‘I said we could wait till we got to Stoppington,’ she said.  ‘We’re here.’ 

 He nodded, blood pumping, terrified of pushing too far.  ‘So we are.  I’m willing to do whatever you will of me, My Lady.’ 

 She kissed him quickly.  ‘Not _My Lady_.’ 

 ‘But you _are_ my lady.  _Warden_?’  He licked down the column of her neck. 

 ‘Ha!’ she gasped.  ‘No.’

 ‘ _Arlessa_.’

 She’d gotten her fingers under the hem of his shirt.  ‘Of where?’ 

 He let out a shaken breath.  ‘Redcliffe, of course.  Or do I have to prove it?’ 

 ‘Can you?’  Her fingers scrabbled against his ribs, and he nearly leapt off the chair when she nimbly, quickly, pinched a nipple.  He clapped his hand over hers through his shirt. 

 ‘Ashwen.’  He swallowed.  ‘Remember your promise.  I need you to remember.’

 ‘Yes.’  She sucked on his lower lip and let go again. ‘I’ll stab you.’

 ‘ _Woman_ ,’ he growled.  ‘The _other_ promise.’ 

 ‘Or will _you_ stab _me?’_

 Teagan made a feral sound he’d never heard from his own throat before.  His heart was going to fly straight out of his chest at this rate.  He stood up, and found that she was very light – much lighter than he’d expected.  He could lift her easily, which gave him some very salacious ideas. 

 ‘I can’t hurt you,’ he choked out.  ‘Maker take me, I want to fuck you senseless, but _I can’t hurt you_.  Your promise.’ 

 She bit his earlobe; his groin responded with a jolt and his hands spasmed.  She kissed his nose and slipped from his arms, and removed her shirt in an easy motion.  He stood mesmerised.  ‘I remember.’ 

 Instead of the gentle, cautious first night of lovemaking he’d anticipated, he found himself with a bold little Ashwen who stripped down to nothing in five seconds and then climbed him like a tree.  He gave in to her as he assuredly always would, and let her lead him to the bed and to her body, and he loved her as joyously and thoroughly as he could.  Their night was full of sighs and shouts and even laughter.  He loved it all the more for its unexpectedness. 

 He was grateful for the thumping music after all. 

  

***

 


	10. To Westhumble

***

 Next morning, Aethelind Hind nodded as Teagan consulted her.  ‘No point looking around here.  If you’re going the northern route, you could stop in Amaranthine, of course, but I suspect you’d prefer not to make a detour.’  Her eyes were definitely not twinkling, he told himself.  If he pretended it wasn’t happening, he could be safe from embarrassment.  Maybe.  _Small towns love gossip more than festivals._   ‘Your best bet is Westhumble, near the old fortress, oddly enough.  My daughter lives there.  There’s a place on Puffin Lane, just off Heathering Street.  Good, reliable, owner knows her business.’

 Teagan seized on the least relevant item.  ‘Are there _puffins_ in Westhumble?’

 ‘Not that I’ve ever seen.’  She gave an eloquent shrug.  ‘Names are strange things.  Anyway, I recommend her highly.’

 ‘This is excellent.  Thank you.’

 ‘Safe journey, Your Grace.’   Aethelind dimpled when she smiled. 

  

***

 They left Stoppington and headed back north up the Pilgrim’s Path.  Shar rejoined them at the gate.  The dog had an uncanny sense of when he could wander on his own and when he was needed.  Ashwen pointed at the brown stains around his mouth and demanded an explanation.  Shar only whined and contorted his brows.

 ‘Shar- _tan_!’

 The dog trotted away, looking for all the world like he was whistling. 

 Teagan had wanted to ride, but Ashwen had demurred.  It wasn’t until they were well out of town that she admitted, ‘I don’t think I can ride for a few hours.  I’m a bit sore.’ 

 He clutched her elbow in alarm, but she grinned at him.  ‘I _like_ it.’  And she leaned up and licked his ear. 

 He convulsed.  ‘Andraste preserve me.’ 

  

*** 

 Their progress was mercifully uneventful, save one afternoon that proved to be the worst day in the lives of a handful of bandits.  Teagan had been almost dozing as the road descended down into a narrow valley between great boulders when Ashwen nudged him and slipped off Brock’s back.  She disappeared nearly immediately, and in short order Teagan found himself forced to halt before the men blocking the way.  They had that sneering, self-congratulatory air of people taking advantage, but that didn’t last long.  Teagan hadn’t even had time to make a grab for his sword before one of them simply dropped in the dirt.  Their leader had missed it, holding Teagan’s eye and enjoying his discomfiture as he advanced.  ‘Now then, Messere, how ’bout you –’ and that’s as far as got.  Once his face hit the earth, the remaining bandits fled in panic.  Shar barked happily behind them, the most Ferelden of cheering squads. 

 As Ashwen clambered up before him on Brock’s back, Teagan murmured, ‘I hate needing rescuing,’ but she didn’t appear to hear him.  Teagan touched his heels against the horse’s sides and they continued on as if nothing had happened. 

 Other than that, it was quiet.  It was the lull time after harvest and before Feastday, and few people needed to travel.  They didn’t have the road entirely to themselves, but it was peaceful.  Shar snuffled in the hedgerows, caught the odd rabbit.  Their camps were comfortable.  They shared a bedroll, like it was the most natural thing in the world.  And why wouldn’t it be?  They fit into each other’s spaces like they weren’t new lovers.  It was easy to be together.  They took their time, exploring as they wished and taking breaks when they pleased.  Teagan counted himself the luckiest man in Ferelden. 

 At Westhumble, they stopped for two nights for the respite.  The first morning, Teagan tracked down the little shop he'd been recommended.  It was near the top of a long, steep street.  _Puffin Lane_ , he thought once he reached it, out of breath.  _Puffin'.  Of course.  
_

Aethelind Hind had given good advice:  the proprietor of The Cryptic Quill, a voluptuous Dwarven woman with tight blonde braids, was indeed knowledgeable and understood what he needed immediately.  ‘I suppose there _is_ a bit of a trick to it,’ she said.  ‘Find something they’re interested in – then there’s more incentive to learn.’ 

 He was surrounded by books – on endless shelves, piled on the floor, wedged into every nook and cranny of the shop.  Teagan perused the stock, and discovered an _Easy Guide to Dalish Legends_ , wondered if it would suit.  Her stories of the Dalish of the Brecilian Forest weren’t particularly encouraging.  The proprietor noticed his interest and steered him to another section, where between them they found a few possibilities, and settled on _The Story of Garahel_.  He flipped through it and nodded.  Turned to his host. 

 ‘Do you have music?’  he asked.  At her hesitation, he added: ‘Not the notes.  The lyrics.’ 

 Her face cleared, and she ushered him into the depths of the building. One wall was devoted to songverse.  He whistled and wondered how much time this would need, but it didn’t take too long to narrow down what he was looking for.  Embarrassed, he hummed a few stanzas for the proprietor, who didn’t flinch at his painful rendering but nodded.  ‘Yes,’ she said.  ‘I have heard it.  Let me think.’  And within three minutes she’d pointed to the correct shelf. 

 ‘You’ll need a primer,’ the dwarf said and shot him a keen look.  ‘What sort of person is she?’

 Teagan narrowed his eyes.  ‘I’m not sure what you’re asking.’

 ‘Human, dwarf, wealthy, religious, what?’

 He wasn’t about to expose the Hero of Ferelden.  ‘An elf,’ he said shortly.  ‘Andrastrian…’  If he said ‘a commander’ it would be a giveaway.  ‘Well-respected,’ he tried. 

 ‘Elf, elf….’ the shopkeep said.  ‘Hmmm.  Some of the instruction books are a bit…old-fashioned,’ and she looked at him sidelong. 

 Of course they were.  He _really_ didn’t want anything offensive.  ‘What do you suggest?’ 

 ‘We’ll find something, Messere, don’t you worry.’ 

 In the end, he left with two alphabet sheets, a primer, pencils and paper, the book about Garahel, and the songbook.  Not bad. 

 Back at their lodgings, he returned to his room to find Ashwen asleep.  He tucked his purchases into the pack at the foot of the bed, slipped out of his jacket and shoes, and curled up beside her.  They slept the rest of the day away together. 

 ***

 


	11. Lessons

***

 They ate and slept, ate and slept, treating the hours of the day as mere suggestions that bound other people.  Their bed was comfortable and very accommodating, and they lived for two days like characters in a saucy Orlesian novel. 

 After one meal, he sat naked across from her on the bed.  ‘Do you know the letters song?’ he asked.  ‘The one children sing?’ 

 ‘Of course.  Everyone knows it.  “Ay Bee Dee See, Eeyeff, Jee, Aitch-Eye Jaykay, Menno-Menno Pee…” ’  She grinned and sniggered at the last syllable.  Teagan raised his hands for her to stop. 

 ‘Do you know what it means?’

 ‘No,’ she said with a snort.  ‘Why would I?’ 

  _Knyfe Eares Unwellcome._ Knife Ears illiterate.  Knife Ears learned the letters song, but never got to learn the letters.   Teagan felt a flash of anger in his gut and tried to get it to dissipate.  

 He kept his face neutral.  ‘I’d like to teach you.  I think – I think you might like it.  Would that be all right?’ 

 ‘OK…’ but she didn’t look convinced. 

 ‘I can reward you with sex.’ 

 She scrunched up her eyes.  ‘Wouldn’t we have sex anyway?’ 

 ‘Point.’ 

 Teagan shifted over, kissed her forehead, and leaned to haul up the pack at the foot of the bed.  Slipped the knots and pulled out the first alphabet chart. 

 ‘Come up here,’ he said, and positioned himself so that he could lean against the headboard.  Ashwen sat between his legs and leaned back against his chest.  He held her and rocked them back and forth, because it made his heart sing and he loved her.  Then he drew the chart across both their laps. 

 ‘Sing with me.  Slowly,’ he said, and he touched a finger to each letter as they went through the song.  He stopped her on the mistakes, corrected them gently, restarted.  She was a quick study: after a few minutes, she had it down pat. 

 He bent around to watch her and discovered that she’d closed her eyes to recite.  He squeezed her with his elbows.  ‘Ashwen, look at the letters.  That’s the whole point.’ 

 ‘Whyyyy?’ she whined, flinging her head back painfully against his collarbone and glaring upward.  ‘I’ve got it already.  I’m getting bored.’

 ‘Because once you know the letters, you can learn to read them.’

 She shrugged.  ‘So?  Never needed it before.  Didn't bother anyone before _you_.  No one at Amaranthine cared.  Or during the Blight.  ’ 

 This really was too childish.  ‘No?’ he said before he could stop himself.  ‘And you know that how?  Do you really want me to do all your reading for you?  Like Alistair did?’ 

  _That_ earned him a sharp intake of breath and he half expected her to punch him. 

 ‘Alistair never said he –’ and she stopped.  Blinked angrily at the ceiling.   Teagan wondered if he should try to make a break for it.  This little village could have the gossip of the month with a naked Arl running for his life through the streets.  _Better even than a festival_.  Instead he waited and congratulated himself on his courage. 

 ‘In Stoppington,’ she said eventually.

 ‘Yes?’

 ‘What did the sign say?’

  _Damn_.  ‘It said… It said that they didn’t serve elves there.’ 

 ‘That’s not what the words were.’

 ‘...No.  That was the gist.’ 

 He waited while she deliberated.  Outside, it must have been midafternoon.  Carts rattled past periodically; dinner smells wafted up from downstairs.  The local children had adopted Shar, and Teagan could hear them playing some kind of game in the street below.  It was all pleasingly domestic. 

 ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly at last.  ‘You win.  Teach.’ 

 Teagan kissed the tip of her ear, set the alphabet next to their knees, drew out the story book, opened it across their thighs.  It was written for younger readers, but the tone wasn’t condescending, and the subject would appeal – he hoped, anyway.  He ran his finger along the words as he read them out. 

         _Long ago, when green was greener and blue was bluer, there was a hero named Garahel._

 Ashwen sat up.  ‘Hey!  I know this story!  Garahel was a Warden.’ 

 She touched the letters on the page and on the chart, giving happy little gasps when she matched them up, and if that made his body react, well, too bad.  And when she noticed and slyly leaned back into him, that was too bad too.  ‘No,’ he said, shifting her forward, in spite of his body screaming at him.  ‘We can do that later.  This is important.’ 

‘But, Teagan…. We could do _this_ later.’ 

 ‘Honestly, perhaps I should have threatened to _withhold_ sex.’

 ‘You wouldn’t to that?’  Her head snapped around.

 His molars must be down to nubs by now, and with so little blood in his brain he was light-headed.  He shook his head and chuckled in defeat.  ‘No.  No, I wouldn’t.’ 

 She winked back at him, twisted impossibly, and kissed his nose.  ‘I love you.’ 

 ‘I love you, too.  Now find the letters in _Garahel_ ’ – he pointed – ‘and tell me their names.’   

 After a couple of minutes, he summoned his nerve. ‘Ashwen?  Is…. Is my nose too big?’ 

 She laughed aloud and he winced.  ‘Is that a euphemism?’  He buried his face in her neck, despite the gross bulk of his frightful nose, and Ashwen reached a hand up behind her to slip fingers into his hair, ran nails along his scalp.  ‘Your nose is _perfect_.  I love it.  Shianni’s an ass.  Have you seen her nose?  You have to look for it, it’s so snubby and small.  Have you been stewing about this all this week?’  He nodded against her skin and she laughed again.  ‘Oh, my Teagan, I love you so.’ She elbowed him and pointed at the page.  ‘Ell!’ she cried.  ‘Can we make love now?’   

 

***


	12. Lake Calenhad and Back on the Road

***

 Lake Calenhad always had an atmosphere of abnormality – no one ever felt comfortable on it – but the ferry would save them time and give the horse a rest, so they stopped at the northern docks near the Circle Tower and caught it.  The ferryman tugged his forelock at them both; they were back in country where they would be recognised everywhere.  Shar padded the length of the boat and back again.  Brock stood on the deck with knees locked, shivering his skin periodically.  Ashwen rubbed his nose. 

 Teagan angled his face into the cold breeze.  ‘This will take about a day to cross,’ he said, and stopped himself.  ‘You know this already – I forgot, I’m sorry.’

 Ashwen nodded, came up and leaned in to him.  He drew his cloak around them both.  ‘I haven’t actually seen the lake since we left for Denerim at the end of the Blight,’ she said.  ‘I haven’t been back this way since.  It looked frightening to me then.  Not so much now.’ 

 ‘Yes.  It was a cloudy night, much darker than usual, and our marching echoed strangely across the water.  Unnerving, on top of everything else.  On days like this it’s quite fine.’ 

 They stayed quiet while the other passengers settled themselves.  They were mostly merchants, the odd mercenary, a priest.  The water sloshed against the hull in pleasing gurgles.  The sun shone. 

 ‘Hang on,’ Ashwen said.  ‘ “ _Our_ marching” ?’

 He’d never told her.  ‘I… Well, yes.’  He could feel his face grow hot.  ‘I… may have ignored Eamon’s instruction to stay at Redcliffe, and marched with one of his lieutenants into the city.’  He braved a glance down.  Ashwen was looking up at him, confusion written all over her. 

 ‘Why are you embarrassed about that?’ she asked.  ‘Did you think I would tattle on you?’ 

 ‘Of course not,’ he scoffed, and turned to look at her fully.  ‘Sweetheart.  I thought you were going to _die_.  I couldn’t stand the prospect of being away from you, so I sneaked along with one of the companies.  I didn’t think I’d be able to _help_ ,’ he said bitterly, ‘– I’m not such a fool – but I had to be there.’ 

_Poor Denerim’s streets bloodied and befouled with gore.  Exhausted but still pushing, fighting the most horrid creatures Thedas had ever spat up.  The city stank.  The noise, Maker, the noise, the cacophony of terror and agony and clashing metal.  A rumour spread like fire that the Wardens were fighting their way up Fort Drakon to face the Archdemon, and Teagan had to swallow down the bile that his sudden fear for them generated.  Up the street, an ogre picked up a soldier and tore her head off like plucking a grape; next to Teagan, a wild-eyed sergeant threw up.  The fucking darkspawn fought like ants: they had a purpose behind their manoeuvres and were gaining ground.  Teagan thought he caught flashes from the top of the fort, but in this light and chaos it was impossible to tell for certain._

_He’d never told her.  He’d never told her, and now it would forever be too late._

_When the great disc of energy and light burst from the tower-top, they could all feel the release of it.  The darkspawn suddenly panicked and bolted; people’s hearts lifted in an instant; their strength returned to them.  But Bann Teagan stood dumbly in the little square he’d fought in, staring up at the mess of the tower far above, and cursed his fate._

 ‘You never told me this,’ she said. 

 ‘No.’ 

 ‘But I didn’t die.’

 ‘No.’

 ‘And you still didn’t tell me.’ 

 ‘No,’ and he was ashamed.  ‘You were alright after all:  you didn’t need me there.  And you had so many people who _did_ need you, and the big celebration…. The Blight was finally over.  You didn’t need the burden of my.... Anyway, I thought it wiser to go back home.’ 

 Her eyes bored into his and her mouth worked.  ‘Do you know my first question when I came to after the battle?’  He shook his head.  ‘“Is Redcliffe all right?” I was terrified that we’d failed you, that we’d misjudged the horde, and that you might have –’ She swallowed hard, clenched fists into his jacket, stood on tiptoe to glare into his face.  ‘ _Two years._ ’

 ‘Yes.’

 ‘ _Two years_ we could have been together if we weren’t cowards.’

 ‘Yes.’

 ‘We’re _stupid_.’ 

 He laughed self-deprecatingly.  ‘Oh, yes.  We are that.  Stupid _together_ now, at least.’

 ‘Fucking finally.  Maker’s ass, Teagan.’

 Somewhere behind them, the priest clicked her tongue.

  

***

 They disembarked next day at the docks east of Redcliffe, and the ferry continued on to the town without them.  Brock would appreciate the exercise, Teagan said, and this stretch of highway was prettiest at this time of year and they should enjoy it.  Both of these things were true; however, it was also true that this was their last chance to be alone together and he wanted to cherish it. 

 ‘Where are we?’ Ashwen asked as she took in the little hamlet.

 ‘Frinks Cove,’ he said. ‘Tiny, but they’ve carved a trade out of being the last stop before Redcliffe, and the freshwater pearls here are finer than anywhere else.  It’ll never be flourishing, but I don’t expect it will ever be abandoned, either.  We can pick up food here before we head off.’

 She stayed with the horse while he nipped away.  He’d get food, and something else as well.

 

***

 The last night before Redcliffe, they sat cuddling next to the fire and he brought out the songbook he’d picked up in Westhumble.  He turned to a page halfway through and showed it to her, pointing at the last line of a verse.  ‘Can you work that out?’ 

 She squinted at it, tilted the book into the firelight, but shook her head.  ‘ “Tih-hogue?”  No idea.’  She handed it back.   

 He arranged himself around her so that his legs were on either side of her and placed the book so it spanned their laps, like at the inn.  Pointed again.  ‘T-H together makes a “thuh” sound.  O-U-G-H usually makes an “oh” sound. 

 ‘ “Though.” ‘

 ‘Yes!’

 ‘I mean, you just said it for me.’

 ‘Keep going.’ 

 She frowned into the page and tried again.  ‘ “Aye.  L-ih-vee.” ’

 ‘The E is silent.  It’s just “liv”.’ 

 ‘That doesn’t make sense.  Why is it silent?  “Liv.  N-oh-t –” Oh! “Though-I-live-not-where-I-love.”  This is the song Leliana played!’

 ‘Yes.  I thought it appropriate.’ 

 She squirmed around to straddle him and threw her arms around him.  The book slipped and he barely caught it.  ‘Don’t let it catch fire!  Maker’s teeth!’ 

 ‘Thank you,’ she said, and kissed his face – eyes, brows, nose, cheeks, lips, nose again. 

 ‘You’re most welcome.’ 

 Opposite the fire, Shar enjoyed a doggy dream, his paws flapping away.  Their campsite perched on a hillside, and from here Teagan could hear the lake waters below, shifting in a soothing rhythm.   It was that strange warm time in the middle of autumn – Second Summer, the locals called it – and they hadn’t bothered to set up a tent.  Tomorrow they would get to Redcliffe by early afternoon.  They would stop at the village Chantry and give thanks for a safe journey – it was tradition; no, they couldn’t skip it, he’d never hear the end of it from Mother Hannah – then if they were lucky they could sneak off to the castle before getting mobbed. 

  _If_.  Well, that was tomorrow’s problem.  For now, he had a night alone with his darling.  And her dog.  And the horse. 

 Ashwen sat leaning against his chest, her fingers toying with his facial hair. 

 ‘Does it bother you?’ he asked.  ‘I can shave.’ 

 ‘No, I like it.’  She looked up at him.  ‘I like touching it.  It’s kind of exotic for me:  elves don’t have beards.’ 

 ‘No…?’ he asked.  He raised an eyebrow.

 ‘No, of course not.  When have you ever seen – _Teagan!_ ’ 

 He laughed and she squealed when he flipped her over.  He covered her mouth with his and teased her with is tongue until she moaned and writhed and fisted fingers in his hair, then kissed down her neck and into the V of her shirt.  Tucked a finger under her hem. 

 Nearby, Brock became restless.  Teagan paused, frowning.  Shar woke up. 

 ‘Someone’s coming,’ Ashwen rasped. 

 They sat up quickly and frantically smoothed their clothes.  Ashwen tossed Teagan a cloak and pointed at his groin, silently cackling at him.  He shot her a glare but threw on the cloak and patted down his hair.  From the roadside, he could hear the stamp of booted feet.  Shar gave a warning growl.  Out of the corner of his eye, Teagan saw Ashwen ready her daggers and nod to him, already prepared.  This was _not_ how this journey was supposed to conclude.  They were nearly home!  It couldn’t end in a fight – this was supposed to be a _break_ from all that.  They’d been doing so well.  He placed himself so he could grab his sword if he needed to.

 Soon the firelight could just pick out two armoured figures approaching warily.  Shar let out a couple of barks, and the men stopped.  Teagan squinted into the night, and with a wash of relief realised who they must be. 

 ‘Call off the Mabari,’ one of them called.  Teagan looked to Ashwen.  She whistled, and Shar padded back to her side. 

 The men advanced to just inside the circle of firelight, and now their livery shone with the heraldry of the King’s Guards. 

 ‘You must be the patrol,’ Teagan said.

 ‘Yes, Messeres.  We thought we heard a… shout.’

 ‘A cry,’ his partner corrected, for which he got a quick elbow.

 ‘Just wanted to make sure all’s well,’ the first man said. 

 The number of times Teagan had had to school his features on this adventure, he should be getting knighted for his efforts.  The patrolmen, too, appeared to be keeping their expressions carefully impassive.  It wasn’t made better when Ashwen blurted out, ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

 The men made serious faces and nodded.  ‘Well, that’s all right then.  Sorry to bother you.  Good night, Messeres,’ and they bowed out with shoulder salutes.  A minute later, Teagan heard a snigger and then, ‘Shut up, you fool!’

 He plonked down on a log and put his head in his hands. 

 ‘Don’t worry.  They didn’t know who you are,’ Ashwen said. 

 ‘They will, though,’ he groaned.  He took in their dishevelment.  ‘We could not possibly look more like guilty adolescents.’ 

 ‘You want to give them a show?’

 He blanched.  ‘Maker, Ashwen, don’t even say it.’ 

 She burst out giggling and pointed up toward the road.  ‘Shar,’ she instructed, ‘make sure they really leave.  Don’t let anyone near the camp.’  The dog gave a happy bark and loped off.  Harrying soldiers was his favourite thing – almost as good as gnawing big bones, which was also his favourite thing.  And sleeping next to the fire in Ashwen’s room.  And teaching children to play fetch.  ‘Don’t chomp anyone!’  she shouted after him. 

 She sidled up to Teagan.  ‘Alone at last,’ she smirked.

 ‘Very funny.’ 

 ‘Oh, my poor Teagan,’ she said, not unsympathetic.  She slipped her fingers into his hair, ran them around the back of his head, along his jaw, and caught gentle hold of his chin, tilting his face up.  Beamed down at him.  ‘I love you so much that every part of my body _aches_.  I can’t put the words together – nothing is enough.  I’m glad you found your courage.  I would never have done it.’ 

 He stared, stunned, for only a moment.  ‘I’m glad too,’ he said.  He pulled her down into his lap and wrapped himself around her, breathed her in.  ‘I know you miss your family,’ he murmured into her hair.  ‘I know the Alienage isn’t where you feel you belong anymore.  I want you to have a family – I want to _be_ that, if you’ll have me – but I wish more than anything for you to have a place that’s _yours_.  Not an assignment, not someplace duty sends you, but a piece of the world that’s part of you, that can’t be ordered away.’

 She spoke so softly he almost didn’t hear her: ‘But that’s _you_.’ 

 ‘Oh, my heart.’  _How?_   _How_ had he found this woman? How could it be that she loved him?  His memories flitted back through recent weeks, through Denerim and Alistair and the Alienage, through Redcliffe and the past years, through the Blight, back to the desperate day when he’d met her.  His life had been half-empty before that day, though he’d never known it.  Now it was brimming full.  He could weep for the joy and relief it brought him.  It could make a man believe in the Maker. 

  She traced figures on the arms encircling her.  By now, Teagan recognised this as a sign of her working through her thoughts.  He waited. 

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘we’ll get to Redcliffe and we’ll stop in the village.  And people will be there.’

  ‘They do _live_ there.’

  ‘And they’ll see us.’

  ‘Yes..?’

  ‘And that’s all right?  With you?’ 

  He twisted around her to look at her.  ‘I beg your pardon – did you think I’d traipsed across the country to fetch you because I _wasn’t_ all right with that?’

  She shrugged. 

  ‘You’re nervous.’

  ‘ _No!_ ’

  ‘I see.’  The flames had burned low, and in the dimness the stars were now shining bright.  Teagan knew he should add fuel to the fire, but this would mean removing Ashwen from his lap, so he didn’t.  He picked out constellations as he considered what to say.  ‘Every single person in Redcliffe,’ he said deliberately, ‘including me, _personally_ owes you their life.  They are going to be _thrilled_ to see you.  Whether they think I’m good enough for you, I can’t speak for everyone, but I think for the most part they will be happy.’ 

 She rested her head on his shoulder.  ‘I don’t want to make things complicated for you,’ she said. 

 ‘If you use the word _liability_ , I’ll toss you in the lake,’ he warned. 

 There was a pause.  ‘Really?’  He didn’t need to see her to know the puckish gleam in her eye.  If he was ever forced to pick one word from his list of adjectives for Ashwen, _irrepressible_ would be the winner.  ‘I’ve never seen you in the water.’

 ‘You won’t tonight, either.  It’s dark.’ 

 ‘…But sometime?’

 He chuckled.  ‘Yes, sometime.  I promise.  There’s a pond on the castle grounds that’s perfect for swimming.’ 

 She gave a happy little sigh, and his body reacted like she’d caressed him.  His muscles tautened and he dropped his mouth to her temple with a grunt.

 ‘You make me _drunk_ ,’ he growled.

 ‘Good,’ she said.  ‘Then you know how _I_ feel.  I believe we have a whole night ahead of us.’ 

  

 ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with the guards may or may not be based on an encounter I had with the Mounties when I was a teenager.


	13. Back to Redcliffe

*** 

The highway into Redcliffe was as familiar as his own voice.  It was good to be back; better to be back with Ashwen.

 The village appeared around a bend.  He felt her tense in front of him; he was reminded of her father trying to shrink into invisibility in Denerim. 

 ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘it’s all right.  If you really don’t want to go in, we don’t have to.’  He halted the horse and held her close, leaned down to her ear.  ‘I love you, I love you.  We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with.’

 ‘Will it really be alright?’

 ‘Sweetheart.  _Yes_.  I promise.’

 They sat immobile for a few minutes.  Teagan was distressed at her anxiety but flattered that she let him see it.  ‘Do you want to skip the village?’

 She shook her head decisively, but held tight to his hand.  ‘No.  Let’s go.’ 

 Brock carried them into town; as they passed the tavern, Ashwen craned her neck.  Teagan stayed the horse again while his beloved squinted at the sign over the door.

 ‘It’s different.’  

 ‘Right….  Ah, Bella renamed the inn.  I didn’t think to mention it.’  

 ‘So what does it say now?’

 ‘Can you work it out?’

 She stared for a moment.  ‘Starts with aitches.  That’s all.’

 ‘Yes.  _The Heroes Hideout_.’ 

 ‘Oh Andraste’s ass.’

 He laughed into her hair and held on tight. 

 

 ---

 ‘You return to us, Warden!’

 Murdock beamed up at them as they clattered to the hitch outside the Chantry.  People started to gather around them.  ‘ _Warden!_ ’  ‘Welcome back to Redcliffe, Warden.’ ‘Safe and sound, Arl.’ 

 The mayor caught Ashwen’s hand as she dismounted.  ‘We’d heard you were on your way,’ he said. 

 ‘You did?’ she asked.  Her face lit up when he leaned down to give her a bearhug.  Teagan alighted down behind her. 

 The Chantry door groaned open, and Murdock inclined his head toward it.  ‘New priest from Tantervale,’ he said. 

 Arl and Warden turned together to see the priest from the ferry emerging next to Bella.  ‘Oooh,’ Teagan gloated quietly in her ear, ‘she was on the ferry.  She didn’t like you swearing.’ 

 ‘Maker’s tits,’ Ashwen muttered.  The priest was young and had a haughty air about her.  Her robes were immaculate.  When she turned toward them, she inclined her head in a way that clearly said, _We’re going to have a talk_.

 ‘You’re in trouble now.’ 

 ‘Is this how you support me?’ she hissed.  ‘Some husband you’re going to be.’ 

 His stomach muscles spasmed and he grunted, stood straighter.  Tried not to smile like an idiot – but oh, Maker, he certainly was one.  The happiest idiot in Thedas. 

 Ashwen was promptly swarmed.  Children, old men, the blacksmith, the baker, everyone within earshot poured into the Chantry yard.  ‘ _It’s the Warden!_ ’  Ashwen blushed and stammered and kept looking back at him, and Teagan thought he might burst from happiness. 

  

\---

 ‘Come.  Let us speak of blasphemy.’  The Tantervale priest gestured imperiously and Ashwen gawped at her. 

 ‘Go ahead,’ Teagan whispered.  ‘Maybe it will be amusing.’  At her incredulous look, he shrugged with a grin.  He thought it likely that Ashwen would tear a strip off her and he revelled in the prospect.  In the meantime, the diversion would give him a chance to sneak away for a while.  He would have to be quick.

 Redcliffe was currently being rebuilt entirely, and the new plans included incorporating more land outside the existing boundaries of the village.  The work had begun a few months ago, and the Crown had provided incentives to help it along – some funding, reduction of tolls, that sort of thing.  Word of this had spread, and a few new craftspeople had set up shop in the hopes of getting in on the ground floor of a major enterprise.  One of these was a young jeweller – an elf from the Marches somewhere.  He’d had a tricky time setting up, but once people saw his skill, they found they cared more about their baubles than his elfishness. 

 Teagan darted into the shop and caught the man’s eye.  ‘A commission,’ he said.

 ‘Of course, Your Grace.  My favourite thing!’ 

 They spoke briefly and earnestly of tradition and creativeness, of culture and respect, and Teagan asked if the jeweller was familiar with the tree in the Alienage. 

 ‘The _Vhenadahl?_ ’ the elf smiled.  ‘Yes, Your Grace.  I grew up in the Kirkwall Alienage.  We have one too.’ 

 ‘I was thinking…’  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a screw of paper, unwrapping it to reveal four tiny, perfect, dark, deep blue freshwater pearls. 

 The jeweller nodded.  ‘Frink’s Cove,’ he said.  ‘Their blues are particularly fine.’

 ‘A ring,’ Teagan said, and the elf nodded again.  ‘Nothing too complex.  But could you make a leaf design?  Like the _Vhenadahl’_  – he stumbled over the pronunciation – ‘leaves?’ 

 ‘Ah!  I see.  Yes, of course I can.  I’d be more than honoured to do it.  The Warden will not be disappointed.’  He shrugged at Teagan’s surprise.  ‘Who else, Your Grace?  But I am discreet.  Should she not… like it, no one will hear of it from me.  And I’ll ensure it’s not too _Orlesian_ in design.’

 

\--- 

 Back at the Chantry, Ashwen waited, rubbing Brock’s nose.  She looked agitated. 

 ‘Did you give her a tongue lashing?’ Teagan asked happily. 

 ‘A _priest?_   No.  I have some standards.’  

 ‘She give you one?’

 ‘She said… she only wanted to help, and that growing up in the Alienage probably meant I didn’t know how to behave.’ 

 Teagan froze. 

 ‘The worst thing is, I think she really does believe she’s _helping_.’  She spat the last word. 

  _No_.  Not here.  Not anywhere, when he could help it, but absolutely _not here_ in Redcliffe.  This was not going to stand.  He collected himself.

 ‘What is her name?’ he asked, voice carefully even. 

 ‘Didn’t tell me.’

 ‘Just as well.  You won’t need to know it.  She’ll be gone before you get the chance.’

 Ashwen eyed him cannily.  ‘You’ve got that Arl look again.  And voice.  What can we do?  We don’t have any authority over Chantry business.’ 

  _We_ – that’s what she’d said.  He hated everything about this except that.  She’d assumed that they would deal with this _together_.  He could almost whoop for the joy of knowing this.  Instead he took her hand – Brock’s nose was going to be rubbed raw at this rate – and did his best to smile reassuringly. 

 ‘You look like a vampire,’ she said. 

 He dropped the smile.  ‘Ordinarily, we would not have any say over Chantry business, true.  But this extra priest has been paid for by the King, to help promote the growth of the town.  So I will write a letter demanding that Mother Nameless leave by the end of the week, or Alistair will _cut her off_.  And then I daresay he’ll be tempted to make a point of sending inspectors from Denerim to go over this Chantry’s accounts.’ 

 Her eyes shone.  ‘Really?’  He inclined his head.  ‘Is – is the Chantry here corrupt?  Mother Hannah doesn’t seem like it.’

 He snorted.  ‘Of course it is. Everywhere is a little bit.  Not Hannah herself,’ he hastened to add, noting her disappointment; Ashwen like Hannah, ‘but she doesn’t run a particularly tight ship.  There would be enough issues to cause trouble.  The point is, Alistair would make it clear that he was paying attention, and other Chantries would be forced to take notice.’ 

 He patted his pockets.  ‘I have my seal on me,’ he said.  ‘Ah!  here it is.  Now I just need a table and some ink…’  He strode to the Chantry door.

 ‘You’re doing this _now?_   Right now?’

 He turned.  ‘Yes?  Why wait?’  And he marched inside. 

 

\---

  At the dim corner desk he’d chosen for composing, he blew fine sand off two pieces of writing paper and reached for the wax when he felt fingers at his nape. 

 ‘You’d better be Ashwen,’ he said. 

 ‘I want to deliver the letter.’ 

 He smiled to himself and stamped the seal, handed over the letter with a flourish.  ‘Give it to Mother Hannah, or Mother Nameless.  Your choice.  Do you want me there?’

 ‘No,’ she said flatly, and her eyes were flint. 

 Teagan picked up the other paper from the desk.  ‘I’ll wait outside.’ 

 Five minutes later she slipped out the Chantry door.  ‘I made them read it aloud,’ she declared.  'Nameless says she’ll write to the King.’

 ‘That’s what this is for,’ Teagan said, holding up the second paper.  ‘Alistair will get fair warning.  And Hannah?’

 ‘Do you know, Teagan, for a second I thought she looked relieved.’ 

 He grunted in satisfaction and cupped his hands for her next to Brock.  He swung up behind, twitched the horse’s reins, and they finally – _finally_ , after far too many days – set off for the castle.  ‘Mother Hannah is a sincere and gentle soul who is not very concerned about sticking to rules.  She’s also been here many, many years.  Nameless has the look of someone who is none of those things.  I daresay Hannah really is relieved.’ 

 Back up the steep path out of town.  At the _Heroes Hideout_ , Bella waved from the doorway.  ‘Welcome back, Warden, Arl.  Glad to see my plan worked.’ 

 ‘What?’ Ashwen asked.  Teagan glared daggers at the innkeeper from behind her. 

 ‘Oh, a story for another time,’ Bella said with a twinkle that guaranteed she’d relish telling it.  ‘Hold up – baked you something, Warden.  That beet cake you used to like.’  She reached for the windowsill and handed up a warm cloth parcel.  ‘Are you staying long?’ she asked coyly.

 ‘As long as she likes,’ Teagan interrupted.  ‘We really must be getting on, Bella.  We’ll stop in for a pint sometime soon.’  He clicked his tongue at the horse and steered him up toward the old windmill. 

 Before him, his darling sniggered.  ‘This whole town knows everything about you.’ 

 ‘That’s certainly true.  Was it like that in the Alienage?’  

 ‘Ha!  Yes.’  He thought he caught a wistfulness there but didn’t press it. 

 At the windmill, they paused, and Teagan pulled out the sketch the jeweller had drawn for him. ‘I, ah, I thought you might like this,’ he said.  He gave her the paper and examined it over her shoulder with her.  It was a design for a flat, simple ring, with the blue pearls spaced evenly across it, separating delicate etchings of leaves.  Teagan pointed.  ‘These are from the cove up the way, and these –’

 ‘Those are _Vhenadahl_ leaves.’ 

 He nodded into her shoulder.  ‘The other things – Rowan’s things – those are from my family.  But this is just for us – a memento of our first journey together.  The jeweller says he wants to make the ring from platinum, because it’s for you, so it will be light and strong – like you are.’ 

 She traced the sketch with her fingertips.  ‘I love it,’ she said.  ‘I love it.’   She turned in the saddle and kissed him.  ‘And I love _you_.’

 He held her tightly.  ‘I love you, too.’ 

 Brock clopped up the last stretch of road to the castle.  Autumn was fully upon them and the route was lined with birches and elms; their leaves glowed yellow in the bright afternoon light.  He would, Teagan thought, like to plant poplars here.  The castle gradually appeared in the distance. He yearned for his own food and bed.  He felt like he’d been gone a century.  Shar fought with the leaves piling up in the ditches.

 ‘I love this place,’ Ashwen sighed. 

 He kissed the back of her head.  ‘I do too.’

 Geese honked overhead.  They would leave and then return home again, like he had done. 

  _Home_.  That’s what he could offer.  A home full of welcome and love, like she’d had once before.  A village full of family.  A connection like the tree in the Alienage. 

 In his letter to Alistair, he’d asked for a _Vhenadahl_ seed. 

  

 

###

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Live Not Where I Love:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Come all ye maids who live at a distance  
> Many a mile from off your love  
> Come and assist me this very moment  
> For to pass away some time  
> Singing sweetly and completely  
> Songs of pleasure and of love  
> My heart is with him all together  
> Though I live not where I love
> 
> When I sleep I dream about him  
> When I wake I find no rest  
> Every moment thinking of him  
> My heart fixed within his breast  
> Though great distance may prove assistance  
> From my mind his love to remove  
> My heart is with him all together  
> Though I live not where I love
> 
> All the world should be one religion  
> All living things should cease to die  
> If ever I prove false to my jewel  
> Any way my love deny  
> The world would change and be most strange  
> If ever I inconstant prove  
> My heart is with him all together  
> Though I live not where I love
> 
> So farewell lads and farewell lasses  
> Now I think I've got my choice  
> I'll away to yonder island  
> Where I think I hear his voice  
> If he hollo, I will follow  
> Though the world it be so wide  
> My heart is with him all together  
> Though I live not where I love
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0NN07t9W0c


End file.
